


Of Like Passion

by HASA_Archivist



Series: The Dûnhebaid Cycle, by Adaneth [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Subjects - Economics, Writing - Clear prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 78,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fiends have been slain, and the Men and Dwarves of Dûnhebaid are hoping for peace and prosperity. Yet monstrous foes make other irritations seem trifling. Out of that shade, quarrels are like to bloom . . . and Lindon takes steps to deal with the interlopers. The Dûnhebaid Cycle, Part III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Friend Like

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Where we love is home,  
_ _Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts._

\--Oliver Wendell Holmes, "Homesick in Heaven"

 * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Introducing Dwarves into a delf was as delicate and uncertain a business as the first tap on a rough gemstone.  The two-day journey from Sulûnduban, the mansion at the headwaters of the Lune, had given Veylin a clearer view of the character of those he had invited to join them, but the icy heights of the Ered Luin at the tail end of winter were not so trying as uncongenial companions in the close quarters of new-delved halls.

Even though the frost had gotten into his fiend-rent knee, irritating his temper.  Perhaps it would have been wiser to let Rekk and Nordri show the place—the design and delving had been their work, after all—but Gunduzahar was Veylin's foundation, and his pride demanded the sight of their praise . . . or blame.

Auð ran a hand over the dark, rough basalt of the wall and frowned, flame-bright beard jutting ominously.

"You must use a mort of oil for the lamps," Siggr said, gazing up into the groin vaulting above the great hall, where many-branched lights hung between the high heads of the pillars, casting their warm glow over all.

Of course he had sent his prentice Oski to ready the hall to receive them, and set all ablaze.  Veylin was opening his mouth to defend the siting of the delf in such stone when Nordri snorted and waved objections away with the hood he had drawn off on the stair from below.  "It is still a work in progress," the mason reminded the half-dozen newcomers to their company, with a knowing smile.  "The stone is not pretty, but what it yields is.  There is a fine, pale limestone not three leagues from here that will make beautiful facing."

"Limestone here?" Aðal murmured in surprise, for it was rare in the northern Ered Luin.

"Wonderful stuff," Nordri assured the carver.

"This would be White Cliffs," Auð asked, "where the Men live?"

Siggr accepted a cup of mulled wine from Oski and looked to Veylin.  "Are these the Men who fled from the fiends you slew in Srathen Brethil?"

"The doughtiest of them."  Rekk passed a cup to Veylin.  "Some aided us in the slaying."

"Truly?"  Hodr hiked a skeptical brow.  "I had no notion these hill herders could handle worse than wolves.  Those seem to give them trouble enough."

Bersi, who had mutton to collect and a copper cauldron to deliver, explained, "Two are Dúnedain, though there is also a Southron swordsman, with the manners and ferocity of a warg."

As Rekk snorted, beard quivering with amusement, Veylin gave his two friends a warning scowl.  Did they think him so sensitive to their allies' honor that he could not hear the others speak slightingly of Men?

"Three only?" Hodr sniffed.

"The fourth," Nordri said, voice pointed as his pick, "was slain beside my son."

That stifled Hodr, who as a delver would work under Nordri's direction.  Veylin marveled that he should now sound so temperate when he observed, "Their count was eight more than a score when we parted, with but a third menfolk grown."  Only three more than their own number.

The sober silence—Dwarves would have been hard-pressed indeed, for women and children to be so thinly guarded—was broken by Narfi.  Bold of him to speak, as a prentice; but then he was also a cousin of Nordri's.  "Why did they flee here, further from other Men?"

Well he might wonder.  "Their lord's sister, the Lady Saelon, has long dwelt at White Cliffs.  She it was who, with her kinsman Gaernath, found and tended me when I was wounded by the fiend that slew Thekk, as we prospected here.  When the fiends broke their halls in Srathen Brethil, her brother sent his children and those who remained by him to her, and named her Lady of their folk until his son comes of age."

"He had no brothers?" Siggr asked, agog at such a thing.  "No cousins?"

"A young cousin, just hardening," Rekk answered.  "One of the Dúnedain who speared the fiends for us."

"Then why has he not taken charge of his folk?"

Rekk gave a dry laugh.  "When you have met Saelon, you will understand."  Holding out his empty cup for Oski to take, he said, "The prentices should have your baggage shifted by now, save—" he grinned at Auð "—for yours.  Come, let me show you to your chambers, so you can make good use of the time left before supper to settle in."

Cocking a warning brow at his impertinence, Auð ambled over to join Veylin as the others filed out of the hall, pausing to scuff at a gouge in the red-mottled pegmatite paving with a booted toe.  "Well?" Veylin asked, with a sudden qualm.  "What do you think?"

"That you should sit down."

"It is so bad?"  He knew he would find honesty here, and a discriminating judge.

"Fool."  Auð chuffed, and set him an example by taking one of the leather-covered armchairs near the well-stoked hearth.

Hooking a stool closer with his cherrywood stick, Veylin settled into the other armchair.  After a quiet winter in the mansion, his leg was almost as useful as it had been before their foray against the fiends—yet it would never serve him as he wished again, an ever-present vexation.  He propped his foot on the stool, laid his stick on the table beside, and folded his hands together.  "Satisfied?"

"It is better than I expected," Auð allowed, eyeing the settles dubiously.  "A paler facing will improve it greatly, but it is too spare, and the storerooms are completely inadequate.  A grand bachelor's scrape, but a bachelor's scrape nonetheless.  If you have any idea of permanence, it needs to be taken in hand."

"Why do you think Rekk and I invited you here?"

Auð sniffed.  "Because you need looking after, brother, and none of your followers dare check you, not even Rekk.  Going off to fight some kind of water-troll on that leg," she growled, but there was pride as well as derision in her gleaming beryl gaze.  "If I wish to keep my few remaining kinsmen, I must be in a position speak out against your eccentricities."

Veylin chuckled.  "When I cannot persuade you to join in them?"  His steadfast elder sister would not be here, so far from the mansion, if she had not found his arguments convincing.

"Persuade," she scoffed, fixing a stern eye on him.  "I know very well that if Thekk had not been killed, he would be here.  Thyrnir has always chased after you, since he could walk, and now that Thyrð is your prentice, where else should I be?  The boys are all I have left of him, and I would be where my heart is."

Neither the grinding in his knee nor her sudden frown stopped him from rising and going to her.  Sitting on the arm of her chair, Veylin took her hand, with its graceful rings of gold and beryl: Thekk's work, splendid things.  "Tell me what will make you comfortable, Auð, and we will get it."  Coming here was a sacrifice in security and company for her, so profound he had hardly dared ask.  Her heart notwithstanding, if the privations were too great, they could not hope to keep her.

With a sudden laugh, Auð snatched her hand away and slapped his.  "Careful, Veylin, or I will hold you to that!  You seem to be doing very well here," her teeth flashed in her fiery beard, "but is there enough to sate me, as well as your heir?"

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

She must not play on her brother's tender heart, his gravest fault.  For a widow, Auð was in easy circumstances.  Her sons were old enough to earn their own way, prenticed to excellent masters; and in the fullness of time Thekk's share in this venture, which Veylin had granted to Rekk, would come to them.  As for herself, she had managed her marriage gift shrewdly enough that her craft need not support her.  She had not left Sulûnduban, the only home she had ever known, for any necessity; did not cling to her kinsmen . . . .  They had sought her aid in the most gratifying way, plying her with the opportunity to establish their halls as she thought fit, at their expense.

Halls where her grandchildren might dwell, if her sons prospered and women would deign to follow them here.  A rare and precious chance to found a delf, in these days when whole galleries of the mansion would lie empty but for the Longbeards who had fled from the dragon.  Still, it was unsettling to walk in unfamiliar passages, where she must pause to recall which way to turn.  When she saw the cherrywood door, Auð knew she had not gone astray . . . but it did not open at her sharp rap.  She did not know the patterns of their lives here yet, either.  Trying once more, she used their private knock from childhood.

As she was turning away, the door opened to show her brother's russet-framed face.  "What is it?" Veylin asked curtly.

"I wish to speak with you about Siggr," she told him, and signed, _You were not at breakfast_.  Both of his prentices were, but Thyrnir had been missing as well.  And he was answering his own door?  Rumors ran that he had a secret mine hereabouts.  "If this is an inopportune time . . . ."

"Siggr?"  His thoughts were elsewhere, his eyes weighing her.

"Yes."

He pushed the door out enough for her to enter, then locked it behind her.

The workshop was much like the one that now sat silent most of the year at Sulûnduban, compact and neatly ordered, iron-bound chests strapped and bolted to the dark floor along one wall, sheep fells thrown over those nearest the door.  The hearth burned only to drive off the damp today, the crucibles cold, but all the lamps blazed at his workbench, shining on chunks of dark stone and sometimes striking a fiery glint.

Auð politely averted her eyes from them.  When Veylin had left the mansions so soon after his maiming and kept away near a year, speculation had been rife among their sept.  Who would stay near the sea—if that was truly where he was—save for great profit?  The muttered doubts had been laid to rest in the autumn, his return bringing copper and cinnabar and a wealth of garnets, treasure enough to reassure their kindred that his wits were undamaged, as shrewd as ever.

Then there were the fire opals.

"Come," he invited, limping back to his bench.  "See what keeps me from Sulûnduban."

Her heart warmed by the gesture of confidence, Auð followed and, once he seated himself, laid a hand on his shoulder as she gazed on his great love.

Even in the rough, they took one's breath: chunks of frozen fire coyly peeping from their rough matrix, clear as golden glass or flickering like sparking flame.  Such beauty: if there was much of this, little wonder that he wished to dwell nearby.  "They have always enthralled you."

He smiled over his shoulder at her, and took up the opal he had been carefully freeing from the dull stone around it.  "How is Siggr troubling you?"

"He is glad to hear my suggestions for how to furnish the hall," Auð mimicked the jointer's over-tactful speech, "but they do not accord with his views . . . and," she added, dryly discontent, "he is under the impression that you have authorized him to fit it out in his own style."

Veylin sighed.  "I will speak to him after supper.  His work is very good," he told her, by way of explanation.

"Yes," she allowed, though grudgingly, "and his prentice is Nordri's cousin.  So I did not quarrel with him.  Much."  Her gaze caught on a beautiful jewel, hanging from the lamp at Veylin's left hand by a silver chain: a sea-beryl, as cool as the opals were warm.  "May I?" she asked, feeling her brother's eyes on her.

He nodded, yet there was a hesitation, telling her she had asked much.

Why, she did not know.  Though undeniably his work, the colors were not those he favored, and the subject one she had never seen him handle before.  The gem, pale blue shading towards green at one end, was as large as her thumb, its long facets splendid, untouched by art.  It was capped by tumultuous silver waves, foam-flecked with flakes of pearl.  "Is this a commission for an Elf of the Havens?"  Beyond their own people, his trade was mainly with Lindon . . . or had been, before he settled on their shores.

"No."

Auð glanced sideways at him.  "If not for all that fire before you, one might credit the whispers that you have taken a liking to the sea."

"Hah."  Veylin hoisted a scornful brow.  "I bear it better than others, that is all.  Wait until this evening," he warned.  "I gave the boys leave, so Thyrnir and Oski might show Thyrð the country round about.  Thyrnir will surely take his brother near enough to give him the horrors."

"Good," she declared, pleased that her youngest should be so tried.  "If he can face that, he should be proof against lesser fears."  Thyrnir had told her, voice solemn and low, of the fearsome potency of the unbounded water, which even the most obstinate rock could barely defy; ever-restless, forever shifting the shape of the land within its reach.  By all reports, he had not flinched from the fiends, monstrous as they were.  It was his place, now that their father was slain, to help harden Thyrð.

Her own younger brother looked suddenly roguish.  "Would you like to see the shore, Auð?"

"Bad enough that I let you lead me so far astray from the mansion," she rebuked him primly.  "Do not think I have grown reckless!"  She gazed down on the jewel in her palm; even in miniature, she could see the might and menace in the glinting grey curls.  "How great are these waves?"

"I have seen them more than twice my height," Veylin said, sobering, "and I do not approach when they are higher.  I am told they can be as high again when winter storms drive them ashore."

Her mind balked at the image.  To turn her thoughts, she asked, "If this is not a commission, what inspired it?"

Veylin turned the rough opal in his hands as he considered whether to answer.  "Saelon.  Foolishness," he admitted, shrugging, "for I will not sell it to anyone else, and she will never be able to afford it.  I planned the piece and came by the sea-beryl as my redemption, but she required more practical assistance.  Though you are right: it would fetch a fine price in Mithlond.  Thyrnir or Thyrð can take it there when I have gone."

Saelon.  The woman of Men who had preserved his leg . . . and his life.  Auð carefully returned the jewel to its place.  "You regard her highly."  She would never forget the day when Rekk burst into their chambers, seeking Thyrnir, after the young raven Thekk had favored came with rumor of his death.  Or when they finally returned, beards ragged with grief, bearing her brother . . . and no other.  Denied even a body to mourn over, Auð had thought it a blessing, then, that Veylin had no wife, for the burden of caring for him buried some of her own pain.  Having seen his wounds, she knew what was owed to that stranger of other race.  Magnificent as it was, the silver-set sea-beryl would have been a well-earned fee.

Yet the tales Rekk and even Thyrnir told of this Saelon were fantastical: she dwelt unprotected, far from her kin; had recklessly defended her stripling kinsman empty-handed; her passion for the sea, even in its wrath; obstinately generous despite extreme poverty.  And they had grown no less outrageous this winter—she had taken charge of the best part of her fiend-shattered folk, defied the Brethren of Rivendell and bent them to her will, and bartered Rekk and Oddi's guilt-price for stock and grain, the wealth of Men.

"I do," Veylin said plainly.  "She is resolute beyond the measure of her kind, both forthright and astute.  She does not look down on us."

"She is not over-tall?"

He smiled wryly.  "Not so much as other Dúnedain, but I did not mean her height."

"Ah."  The scorn of Men.  Auð met her brother's brooding russet gaze.  "Thyrnir found her very strange, and what Rekk tells I can hardly credit."

"Men are odd folk, and find us the same."  Veylin made a resigned noise.  "I do not know how to tell you of her, without making her sound distastefully queer.  Yet I have found her good company.  Would you like to meet her," he asked, cocking his head, "and judge for yourself?"

Auð regarded him mistrustfully, knowing that reflective glint in his eye from when he was an over-inquisitive beardling.  Several of the men meant to visit the Men in a few days, if the weather improved.  "Are you suggesting I go with you to White Cliffs?"

"No," he said, so firmly that she was reassured.  "We do not know how things stand there, and not all of the Men are as trusty as Saelon."

"How, then?"

"Perhaps we should make some return for the hospitality they have given," Veylin mused.  "I could invite her and her kinsman here."

"You would have Men in the halls?"  Folk of other race sometimes visited Sulûnduban, but the mansion's defenses were stout and deep.

"A few have been here already, in the great hall," he confessed, the corner of his mouth curved with amusement, "though fewer know where the front door lies, and only Saelon has seen the way in."

Auð stared at him, uncertain which was the greater wonder.  "You trust her so much?  She came here alone?"

"Yes, I do.  Come, sister," he chided her, in a tone that, though light, was decided.  "Do not look so shocked.  Five days I lay helpless under her mercy, when she was a stranger to me; four days she was alone with four of us, bearing the mark of Rekk's anger on her face and the gold of his regret in her hair.  Having started so, there is a certain confidence on both sides."

Put so, it did not seem quite so incredible, but Auð still found it disturbing.  She could not imagine herself in such a position: if a Man had seized her, she would have killed him.  Was this woman of Men surpassing brave, or merely weak?  She frowned at Veylin.  Hardly the latter, or her brother would not honor her so.  As the silence of her consideration stretched on, he calmly assured her, "You need not."

"And have you think me less courageous then she is?"

Veylin chuffed, with a quick scowl.  "Never!  Her boldness is admirable, but she is not Khazâd.  Women are common among Men, and the harsher fate treats them, the faster they multiply."

Would that it were so among their own people.  "I doubt the wisdom of revealing so much," Auð cautioned.  "Not for my own sake: I have borne my children, and they are old enough to fend for themselves.  Yet you yourself have said that not all the Men can be trusted, and there is the future to think of."  A small delf, near the sea—if it were known Men frequented the place, would any women would be willing to risk removing here?

"What is the use of allies, if they cannot warn you of impending ill?" he countered.  "Do you think I have been needlessly indiscreet?"

She shook her head.  "No.  Do as you will," she told him.  "Or must.  I am curious enough to look on this Saelon if the opportunity offers, but do not create it for my sake."  What were the Men to her, if they were too poor to provide enough food for the larder, or coin in exchange for craft?  Veylin had amply repaid his debt, and the fiends had been slain.  What else could threaten here, at the edge of the world, that they should need the aid of Men?

 * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

This is the third story in the Dûnhebaid ("Westshores") cycle, which is set on the north coast of the Ered Luin during the mid-29th century of the Third Age of Middle-earth.  For the fullest appreciation of the characters and events, I recommend that you read the preceding stories, _Rock and Hawk_ (T.A. 2847) and _Fair Folk and Foul_ (T.A. 2848).  The web is becoming increasingly intricate, and the differences between the characters' perspectives—over time, as well as between individuals—is frequently significant.

As explained in the author's notes for _Rock and Hawk_ , this cycle takes its sense of place from the West Highland coast of Scotland and draws heavily on the archaeology and traditional lifeways of that region, as Tolkien drew on the languages and lifeways of the English West Midlands.  For those who are interested, images of some of the real places that inspired me can be found under "Setting the Scene" on my HASA forum, "The Heart is Highland," and under "Places" in the "When, Where, and Who" at the end of this story.

Please bear with the many and wordy notes regarding the culture and history of Dwarves, as I delve deeper below the surface.  Their lore is little known, which has led to many misunderstandings between them and folk of other races.  A little "ethnography" is useful, to better understand their motivations and unique perspective on the world, but I do not want to lumber the story itself with info-dumps justifying my interpretation.

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 Notes

**"No Friend Like"** : "For there is no friend like a sister  In calm or stormy weather."  —Christina Rossetti, "Goblin Market"

**Basalt** : a dark, hard igneous rock, often containing rich mineral deposits.  Gunduzahar is delved in a plateau basalt (an ancient lava flow) with [amygdaloidal ](http://www1.newark.ohio-state.edu/Professional/OSU/Faculty/jstjohn/UP%20Michigan%20geology/Amygdaloidal-basalt1.jpg)structure, where the hollows formed by trapped gas have been filled with quartz and other minerals, and significant deposits of copper.

**Groin vaulting** : a vault is the arched structure that supports a roof; a [groin vault](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bc/Groin_Vault.jpg) is a form of cross-barrel vaulting where the arms are of equal height, forming arched lines of intersection (the groins) that direct the weight to a point, such as the top of a column, instead of a line, like the top of a wall.

**Pegmatite** : an igneous rock, usually granitic, with very large, coarse crystals.  This is a granite pegmatite with striking red and black and white crystals, matching [a piece I found on a beach in Scotland](http://i209.photobucket.com/albums/bb25/Saelon/P1080014.jpg).

**"sacrifice in security"** : Dwarves are a secretive people, taking such care to conceal their womenfolk that there is a "foolish opinion among Men that there are no dwarf-women, and that Dwarves 'grow out of stone'" ( _LotR_ , Appendix A.III).  Why should this be?  I suspect that the scarcity of their women—no more than one-third of their numbers ( _LotR_ , Appendix A.III)—and the smallness of their families—four children being rare (HoME XII: _The People of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285)—makes women very precious . . . and you know how jealously Dwarves guard their treasures.  In light of the strong-willed nature of the breed, dwarf-women must have internalized this view; no one could make them sit safely at home if they didn't want to.

 For the Naugrim [Dwarves] have beards from the beginning of their lives, male and female alike; nor indeed can their womenkind be discerned by those of other race, be it in feature or in gait or in voice, nor in any wise save this: that they go not to war, and seldom save at direst need issue from their deep bowers and halls (HoME XI: _The War of the Jewels_ , p. 205).

**"Thekk's share in this venture, which Veylin had granted to Rekk"** : Rekk is the only brother of Thyrnir and Thyrð's father.  Since Dwarves are strongly patrilineal (HoME XII: _The People of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285) and Rekk did not wed, they are his heirs.  Veylin did not give them their inheritance directly for strategic reasons: to found new halls, he needs support from established, conventional Dwarves such as Rekk.  The "Dramatis Personae" section following these notes provides relevant genealogical information for Dwarves and other characters.

**Marriage gift** : Tolkien does not go into such details, but among Men, strongly patrilineal societies where farmland is not the most valuable resource frequently give bridewealth, a substantial payment by the groom to the bride's family to "buy out" their stake in her children.  Given the independence of dwarf-women in regard to marriage—"they are never forced to wed against their will (which 'would of course be impossible')" (HoME XII: _The People of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285)—I would expect such a payment to go to the bride herself.

**"when whole galleries of the mansion would lie empty, but for the Longbeards who had fled from the dragon"** : even in prosperity, Dwarves multiplied slowly, and by the end of the Third Age, their numbers were dwindling in the West.  The Longbeards are Durin's Folk, the eldest of the seven Houses of the Dwarves.  After Smaug descended on the Lonely Mountain and destroyed the Longbeard kingdom of Erebor, many of the refugees—including Thorin Oakenshield—settled in the Ered Luin in T.A. 2802 ( _LotR_ , Appendix B; see entry for 2799), where the Firebeards and Broadbeams had dwelt since before the First Age (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 301).

**Signed** : Auð is using _iglishmêk_ , a secret (and intentionally cryptic) dwarven gesture-language.  See HoME XI: _War of the Jewels_ , p. 395.

**Garnet** : a reddish gemstone.  These are the more common almandines, with often contain flaws.  Here are some [in a schist](http://rst.gsfc.nasa.gov/Sect2/SchistDurhamGarnetKyanite.jpg) like that found around Habad-e-Mindon.

**"give him the horrors"** : Dwarves don't like the sea.  In trading with Elves during the First Age, they seldom went to the Falas, "for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it" ( _The Silmarillion_ , "Of the Sindar").

**"pleased that her youngest should be so tried"** : Dwarves believe in tough love.  See HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285.

 To these [their children] they are devoted, often rather fiercely: that is, they may treat them with apparent harshness (especially in the desire to ensure that they will grow up tough, hardy, and unyielding), but they defend them with all their power, and resent injuries to them even more than to themselves.

**Brethren of Rivendell** : Elladan and Elrohir.  This is an overstatement, but did you expect Dwarves to make Elves look good?

  **Khazâd** : the Dwarves' name for themselves.


	2. No Friend Like

Since the number of supporting characters in the Dûnhebaid Cycle continues to grow, a crib sheet may be useful.  After dealing with time and place, I have provided a character list, broken down by race: Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Creatures of Note.  The folk formerly of Srathen Brethil are divided into households and listed in order of rank, so status, kinship, and alliance can be more easily seen.  The Dwarves of Gunduzahar are divided into household groups that include prentices and followers as well as close kin.

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** Time **

To minimize the bafflement of readers who have not memorized the Sindarin month-names used by the Dúnedain, and also continued repitition in notes, I provide a list below.  For a [fuller treatment of the coordination of the Western Gregorian calendar with those of Third-Age Eriador](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7518&spordinal=1), please follow the embedded link.

                        Dúnedain        Westron  
 **January**           Narwain          Narvinyë  
 **February**         Nínui               Nénimë  
 **March**              Gwaeron         Súlimë  
 **April**                Gwirith            Viressë  
 **May**                 Lothron           Lótessë  
 **June**                 Nórui               Nárië  
 **July**                  Cerveth           Cermië  
 **August**             Urui                 Úrimë  
 **September**       Ivanneth          Yavannië  
 **October**           Narbeleth        Narquelië  
 **November**       Hithui              Hísimë  
 **December**        Girithron         Ringarë

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** Place **

I list here only places of my own invention or naming, in alphabetical order, with translations of their names and information on my sources of inspiritation, where those are particularly strong.  If you do not recognize some other place-name, please consult your favorite Tolkien references.

**Cailcàrach** : compound; Sindarin _cail_ , "palisade" and Scots Gaelic _càrach_ , "of the peat bog."  A ridge of glacial till that forms the northern edge the bog-moor north of Habad-e-Mindon.

**Gunduzahar** : Khuzdul, "bold hall."  Veylin's halls some three leagues north of Habad-e-Mindon, so called for its daring location.  It is delved into a flat-topped hill closely resembling [Healabhal Mhor](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/geophotos/01/42/24/1422409_83485a98.jpg), also known as Macleod's Table North, on Skye.

**Habad-e-Mindon** : Sindarin, "shore of the isolated hill, tower"; _mindon_ appears to be equivalent to Gaelic _dun_ , which can mean a hill suitable for a tower or the tower on it.  There is also an echo in Hebudes, the first recorded name of the Hebrides, in Pliny the Elder's _Natural History_ , written in AD 77.  A cliff-backed bay on the shore north of Mount Rerir, where Saelon dwelt long dwelt alone before being joined by refugees from Srathen Brethil.  It has been modelled on a variety of Hebridean locales, principally [Machir Bay](http://www.armin-grewe.com/holiday/scotland2003summer/islay-machir-panorama.jpg) on the isle of Islay and [King's Caves](http://www.blackwaterfoot-lodge.co.uk/images/kingscave.jpg) on the isle of Arran.

**Lochan Harnas** : compound, Scots Gaelic _lochan_ , "small loch or lake," and Sindarin _e harnas_ , "of the cairn."  This is a [large pond](http://www.geowalks.demon.co.uk/images/blog/sld07/Kettlehole.jpg) on the landward side of the gravel and cobble ridge about halfway between Habad-e-Mindon and Gunduzahar, named for the cairn Gaernath raised above Veylin's _raug_ -slain companions.

**Ram, the** : Sindarin, "wall."  The great shore-dyke a league south of Habad-e-Mindon.  This is loosely based on A'Chleit in Kintyre; here is [a smaller one from Arran](http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2563/4076318606_591df18331.jpg).

**Srathen Brethil** : compound; Scots Gaelic _srath_ , "strath, valley" (compare Sindarin _rath_ , riverbed) and Sindarin _en-brethil_ , "of the birches."  A [glen ](http://blog.robertstrachan.com/wp-content/gallery/photo-a-day/glencoe-lochan.jpg)in the eastern foothills of the Blue Mountains and the westernmost settlement of the Dúnedain, founded by refugees from the fall of Arthedain.

**Sulûnduban** : Khuzdul, "dale of the Lune"; according to Ardalambion, Tolkien considered the possibility that Lhûn/Lune originated as an early borrowing of Khuzdul _sulûn_ or _salôn_ , "to fall, descend swiftly" into Sindarin.  The chief dwarf-mansion of the northern Blue Mountains/Ered Luin, near the headwaters of the River Lune, and the seat of the king of the Firebeards.  It is delved in a mountain based on the spectacular [Suilven](http://www.maths.ed.ac.uk/hall/images/Suilven.gif) of Assynt in the northern Highlands, which somewhat resembles the peak drawn at the head of the River Lune on Tolkien's map.

**White Cliffs** : the Dwarvish name for **Habad-e-Mindon**.

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** Men **

There are many different kinds of Men in Middle-Earth ( _LotR_ , App. F, "Of Men").  Since my stories are based in northwestern Eriador, most of the Men are either Dúnedain, the long-lived descendants of the Númenóreans, or Edain, descendants of the First Age Atani who did not remove to Númenor.  The Dunlendings or Swarthy Men, whose ancestors dwelt in the vales of the White Mountains before the arrival of the Númenórean founders of Gondor, were apparently of Easterling rather than Atani stock.

Since kinship was an important bond, I have specified the exact relationship between significant people.  For instance, Gaernath is Saelon's cousin; to be precise, he is her FaFaDaSoSo—father's father's daughter's son's son.  I might simply say Gaernath was her great-aunt's grandson, but in these patrilineal societies, it is important to see who is in the same line.  I follow Tolkien's convention of adding a dagger symbol (†) before the dates of untimely deaths; the names of those who are deceased, from any cause, are italicized.  All dates given are in the Third Age.

Dúnedain of Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Saelon** (2790–  ): lady of Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Rian** (2832–  ): Saelon's neice (BrDa; Halladan's daughter)  
 **Halpan** (2821–  ): Saelon's cousin (FaBrSoSo; Haldorn's brother)  
 **Hanadan** (2841–  ): Halpan's nephew (BrSo; Haldorn's son)  
 **Gaernath** (2832–  ): Saelon's cousin (FaFaDaSoSo)  
 **Partalan** (2801–  ): Dunlending swordsman and harper, in Saelon's service  
 **Canand** (2792–  ): Edain drover

**Dírmaen** (2796–  ): Ranger of the North posted in Habad-e-Mindon

Free Edain of Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Maelchon** (2810–  ): husbandman  
 **Fransag** (2815–  ): Maelchon's wife  
 **Gormal** (2837–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Maon** (2839–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Guaire** (2841–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Ros** (2843–  ): Maelchon's daughter  
 **Uspag** (2845–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Gràinne** (2786–  ): Fransag's mother  
 **Fokel** (2809–  ): manservant  
 **Tearlag** (2815–  ): serving woman

Cottars of Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Airil** (2780–  ): gaffer  
 **Artan** (2828–  ): Airil's grandson (SiSo)  
 **Muirne** (2830–  ): Artan's wife  
 **Leod** (2831–  ): Airil's grandson (SiSo)

**Finean** (2799–  ): widower  
 **Unagh** (2829–  ): Finean's daughter  
 **Murdag** (2832–  ): Finean's daughter  
 **Teig** (2808–  ): kennelman; Aniel's brother

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Folk of Srathen Brethil not at Habad-e-Mindon  
 ** _Aniel_** _(2812–†2848): huntsman  
_ ** _Haldorn_** _(2784–†2847): Halpan's elder brother, Halladan's cousin (FaBrSo)  
_ ** _Halladan_** _(2781–†2847): Saelon's eldest brothe;, 15 th Lord of Srathen Brethil  
_ **Halmir** (2835–  ): Saelon's nephew, Halladan's son and heir; fostered with Râdbaran  
 ** _Nárwen_** _(2706–2826): Saelon's grandmother (MoMo), originally from the Tower Hills_  
 **Necton** : Saelon's former lover  
 **Urwen** (2795–  ): Hanadan's mother, Haldorn's widow, daughter of Halglas

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Other Dúnedain of the North  
 **Ailinel** (2726–  ): Dírmaen's aunt (FaSi)  
 ** _Arathorn_** _(2693–†2848): Argonui's father; 12 th Chieftain; slain by _raugs _in Srathen Brethil_  
 **Argonui** (2757–  ): 13 th Chieftain of the Dúnedain; great-grandfather of King Elessar  
 **Râdbaran** (2746–  ): Dúnedain lord, leader of Rangers sent to Habad-e-Mindon in 2848; foster-father of Halmir

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** Dwarves **

There are seven kindreds or houses of Dwarves: the Longbeards, originally seated in the Misty Mountains; the Firebeards and Broadbeams of the Blue Mountains in the west; and the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots, whose mansions were further east (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , "Of Dwarves and Men").  All of the Dwarves listed here are Firebeards, unless otherwise specified.

I have supposed that, since they are notoriously clannish, Dwarvish sociopolitical organization is firmly grounded on kinship.  I suggest that kindreds, governed by a king, are further divided into septs or lines (e.g., Durin's Line, _LotR_ , App. A.III, genealogical lineage), led by chieftains ("Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night," said Glóin at the Council of Elrond: _LotR_ , Book 2, Ch. II).  Men often refer to these kings and chieftains as dwarf-lords, but they are not lords in any kind of feudal sense.  Dwarves are singularly adverse to the dominion of others, and the justification for their leaders' authority is parental: "'kings' or heads of lines are regarded as 'parents' of the whole group" (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285).  Rank, such as they have, appears to be based on seniority, hence the priviledged status of Durin the Eldest and his descendants the Longbeards.

Gunduzahar  
 **Veylin** , son of Vali (2708–  ): gemsmith  
 **Oski** , son of Onar (2804–  ): prentice to Veylin; Longbeard  
 **Thyrð** , son of Thekk (2809–  ): Rekk (BrSo) and Veylin's nephew (SiSo); prentice to Veylin

**Vitnir** , son of Nali (2735–  ): ironmaster; Veylin's cousin (FaBrSo) and heir  
 **Skani** , son of Skaði (2802–  ): prentice to Vitnir

**Auð** (2698–  ): tailor; Veylin's sister and Rekk's widowed sister-in-law

**Rekk** , son of Ekki (2686–  ): waterwright  
 **Ingi** , son of Iolf (2769–  ): prentice to Rekk

**Nordri** , son of Narði (2661–  ): stonemason  
 **Nyr** , son of Nordri (2763–  ): stonemason  
 **Haki** , son of Harin (2687–  ): ironmaster, Nordri's cousin (FaBrSo)  
 **Gamal** , son of Grani (2760–  ): stonemason; former prentice to Nordri

**Grani** , son of Guti (2658–  ): carpenter, Nordri's cousin (FaSiSo)  
 **Thyrnir** , son of Thekk (2798–  ): Rekk (BrSo) and Veylin's nephew (SiSo), prentice to Grani

**Bersa** , son of Berg (2624–  ): cook; Broadbeam  
 **Bersi** , son of Berg (2657–  ): coppersmith; Broadbeam  
 **Barði** , son of Bersi (2755–  ): coppersmith; Broadbeam  
 **Fram** , son of Feyn (2783–  ): prentice to Bersi; Broadbeam

**Aðal** , son of Aðr (2738–  ): stonecarver

**Siggr** , son of Seggr (2689–  ): jointer  
 **Narfi** , son of Nar (2794–  ): prentice to Siggr; cousin to Nordri (FaBrSoSo) and Haki

**Laufi** , son of Lautnir (2716–  ): glazier, lampwright

**Hodr** , son of Fodr (2721–  ): delver

Other Dwarves of note  
 **Andvari** : Dwarf who bought gems from Veylin  
 ** _Arðri_** _, son of Orð [ReL] (2791–†2848): prentice to Veylin  
_ ** _Nyrað_** _, son of Nordri [ThL] (2772–†2848): stonemason  
_ ** _Thekk_** _, son of Ekki [NL] (2695–†2847): gemsmith; Rekk's brother, Auð's husband  
_ ** _Vestri_** _, son of Oddi [ThL] (2775–†2847): prentice to Veylin  
_ ** _Vitr_** _, son of Nali [ThL] (2724–†2848): ironmaster; Veylin's cousin (FaBrSo)_

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**Elves  
** **Círdan** : The Shipwright, lord of Lindon  
 **Elladan** (T.A. 130–  ): son of Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell  
 **Elrohir** (T.A. 130–  ): son of Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell  
 **Falathar** : coastwarden of Lindon; one of the three companions of Eärendil on his voyage to Aman at the end of the First Age  
 **Gwinnor Tinnath** / **Vingenáro Tinwi** : Noldor gemsmith; in the First Age a follower of Finrod Felagund, and in the Second of his sister Galadriel in Eregion; he was for a time one of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain

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**Creatures of Note  
Coll**: Gaernath's chestnut gelding  
 **Madamenath** , **Mada** : Dírmaen's brown gelding  
 **Môrfast** : Saelon's high-bred black stallion  
 **Tinnu** : Gwinnor's grey mare


	3. Corn and Copper

_My grandmothers were strong._  
_They followed plows and bent to toil,_  
_They moved through fields sowing seed.  
_ _They touched earth and grain grew._

\--Margaret Walker, "Lineage"

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Now that the gale had blown itself out, the sky pastured clouds fair as grazing sheep and the air was mild for Gwaeron: a perfect day to turn out the winter woolens, sour from long use.  Rian and Finean's lasses sang as they stamped the cloth in the burn, jesting and splashing amid the rush of water.  Having pinned a blanket firmly onto the thorns of one of the may trees growing along the foot of the high-perched cliff, so it would not be loosed by the blustery wind, Fransag paused to gaze down at the machair, shading her eyes and frowning.

"Is something amiss?" Saelon asked, with sudden misgiving.  It had been near this time last year when an elven-ship put into the bay, and Círdan's coastwarden took offense at the ploughed and newly planted ground.  Fransag's husband Maelchon and the cottars were down on the levels behind the dunes now, breaking the tough green turf to extend last year's field.  Had the Elves returned to forestall sowing, and see them off their land?

Bending to her basket, Fransag took out a dripping cloak and shook it.  "It seems not.  Gaernath has returned without the others, but he paused to bespeak the men, and they have gone back to work."

Leaving a shawl fluttering by one end, Saelon walked to the edge of the cliff-shelf to see for herself.  Behind her, Fransag called out, "If you would fall in, now is the time, Murdag!"  The younger of Finean's daughters gave a cry of scandalized protest, then all the lasses broke out in laughter and splashing.

While Maelchon and the cottars readied the land for planting, the men of her household had gone out with Dírmaen to see what the last pups of Aniel's breeding might do with the mad hares.  Yes, there was Gaernath, his blazing red hair unmistakable, trotting his chestnut mare along the edge of the field; gazing up, he gave her a vigorous, cheerful wave.

Nothing ill, then.  She scanned the country round about and, seeing naught but the horses cropping the northern headland, went to the head of the track to meet Gaernath as he rode up.  "What news?" she called, as his mount picked its way through the mud and stones of the steep, badly rutted path.

He grinned at her.  "The Dwarves are coming to call."  Swinging down from the saddle, he began, "Master Veylin and some—"

A burst of giggling from the burnside distracted him.  He turned his head to scowl, ready to rebuke mirth at the expense of their uncommon neighbors, the soft curls of his maiden beard doing their best to bristle . . . then stood suddenly still as a hound at gaze, while the lasses regarded him, frank as hinds.

Saelon slid her gaze from Murdag, skirts kilted high, face flushed, to her young cousin, his lanky frame filling out to manhood.  "You were saying?" she asked, pursing her lips to keep from smiling.

"Hm?"  His ears had gone a heated pink.  "Ah," he answered, almost haphazard, eyes still on that winsome, white-limbed lass, "they crossed our path just this side of Cailcàrach, on their way here."

Fransag ambled over to join them, casting an encouraging grin at the lasses as she caressed the burgeoning fullness of her belly.  "And can you remember how many guests we are to expect, lad, or has the sight of so much beauty struck you witless as Beren?"

That roused him, pricking the irritable pride of youth.  Turning hot eyes on the goodwife, he answered sharply, "One short of a dozen.  They are a few miles behind me, no more."

Saelon laid a hand on his shoulder.  "Thank you, Gaernath.  Would you help Rian spread what has already been washed?"

"Once I see to my horse."  Asserting the priority of manly duties . . . but lending his cousin a hand would give him ample excuse to linger near his sweetheart.  "Oh," he added, turning back, "Bersi brings your cauldron."

"Does he?"  It seemed an age, now, since she had struck that bargain at the harvest feast, before the quarrel.  What was still owing?  Two sheep, two geese, and two bushels of honeycomb?  The sheep and geese would be no trouble, but this was not the season for honey, and they did not have so much left in store.  Looking to Fransag, she asked, "What might we give so many, on such short notice?"

So many guests, and so little notice: but at least there was something to give them, and things other than honey to trade.  Such a difference a year had made.

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Standing under the overhang of the cliff by the door of their hall, poised to receive their guests in her one good gown, Saelon watched as the first pony followed Halpan's bay onto the beaten greensward: a stout sorrel, bearing a figure that sat as tall in the saddle as his stature allowed, the russet of his hood a welcome warmth amid the faded colors of late winter.  Hanadan ran to claim the pony's bridle, and Veylin jested with the lad, who laughed as he led the beast towards the stone that served the lame Dwarf as a mounting block.

More ponies, crowding the cliff-shelf: Rekk and the coppersmith Bersi; Nordri the mason, with a Dwarf she did not know; Nordri's cousin Grani . . . and the prentices after.  Veylin's Oski; Rekk's Ingi; Veylin's nephew Thyrnir, prenticed to Grani, riding beside another stranger; and one last new Dwarf, bringing up the rear of their train.  As he led a pony bearing a great gleaming copper kettle, she thought he might be Bersi's prentice.

From the perch of the stone, Veylin was scanning the dooryard, looking for—

Their eyes met, and before he stepped down from the rock, she saw his beard twitch by the corner of his mouth.  Amused; by her feeble show of finery, most like, or the formality that came so hard for her.  She could match him neither in wealth nor practiced courtesy, and never would.

Yet she would give her best, so there could be no doubt of her regard, despite the constraints her position had laid upon their familiarity.

When he approached at the head of his company, Veylin leaned only a little on his sturdy blackthorn stick.  Good; that was an improvement on what she had last seen.  Not that she would speak of it—a liberty even Veylin would resent—but as the one who had labored to mend his leg, she retained an interest in it.  That he could walk gave her great satisfaction; that he had gone to battle so, and still walked, was a wonder to her, a testament to the hardihood of his kind.

"Lady Saelon," Veylin greeted her, sweeping off his hood and bowing low.  "Hail, and well met again."

She curtseyed in return.  "Welcome back to the hall you delved us, Masters."  She glanced over the Dwarves behind him.  Rekk and Nordri were pleased by her acknowledgement of their work; those whose acquaintance went back no further than the harvest feast wore civil expressions.  There was cool reserve, even doubt, on the bearded faces she did not know, save for the Dwarf beside Thyrnir, who regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity.  "You have had a prosperous winter, I trust?"

"Not bad."  There was a gleam in Veylin's deep-set eyes that suggested this was gross understatement, and an easy complacence in his smile.  Dissatisfaction in a Dwarf was as plain as a storm on the sea; this unruffled aspect could speak only of content.  "And you, Lady?" he asked, with more concern than civility required in his deep, harshly accented voice.  "Did the season treat you and yours more kindly this year?"

It could not have treated them much worse, and left them standing.  "Kindly enough that I need not barter with you for something to fill your cups.  Please, come in, Masters, and take some refreshment after your ride."

"Gladly.  Though there are some new members of our company you should know."  Veylin gestured to the foremost of the strangers, the one by Nordri, who stepped forward.  "Aðal, son of Aðr, at your service, Lady," he said, drawing off his deep mustard-colored hood and bowing.

"At yours and your family's," Saelon replied, making her bob.  "Welcome to Habad-e-Mindon."

When Aðal stepped aside, turning his attention to the cliff-face, Veylin fixed his gaze on the Dwarf who had regarded her curiously.  "This," he rumbled, brows lowered, "is my newest prentice."

"Thyrð, son of Thekk."  With his midsummer-green hood in his hand, he bowed very low, his red-gold hair blazing in the sun.  "At your service."

Saelon smiled, understanding Veylin's stern look.  "Ah, you are Thyrnir's brother—" they had the same fiery mane "—and the nephew of the redoubtable Rekk."  Of Veylin, as well, through his sister; but since they misliked speaking of their womenfolk, she merely said, "Triply welcome, then.  It is good to meet the kin of such friends."

"And the Lady of Habad-e-Mindon," he returned, "of whom I have heard so much."

"No doubt!" Saelon laughed.  A youngster, she judged, warned to be on his best behavior.  Turning her smile on the final newcomer, she asked, "And you, Master?"

"Fram, son of Feyn," he replied, with a brusque bow.  "I follow Bersi."

Had her particularity offended him?  "At your service," she told him punctiliously.  "So I thought, when I saw the burden borne by the pony you led."

Bersi bowed.  "The veal was so good, I am keen to conclude our bargain.  Nor would I deprive your guests of what you might brew in it."

Now that sounded like the pretty speech of a seasoned packman; though she had forgotten he had a taste for her ale.  "Of course, Master.  Yet take a draught and a bite, first."  Hopefully it would put him in better temper for any disappointment about the honey.

They had ranged the benches around the far end of the hall.  At the long hearth down the center, Fransag was making scones with the last of the dried blaeberries, and these Rian served hot and hot, with new butter and cream, as Saelon went around with the heather ale.  This gave her the opportunity to speak to the more familiar guests, while her kinsmen entertained the company at large.

"Master Nordri."  She proffered one of their better cups, filled to the brim.  "Such a grief, to hear of your son's death.  We cannot but remember him, seeing his work every day as we do."

The stonemason sighed deeply as he took the turned alderwood, and looked to the panels of birches by the door.  "Indeed, Lady.  It is some comfort, that you value his work so."

"Nyrað did the carvings?" Aðal asked, solemn appreciation.  "They are very fine.  I see why you think so highly of this stone."

Saelon smiled somberly as she passed Aðal a cup.  "Are you also a mason, Master?"

"A stonecutter, Lady."

Wiping traces of ale from his whiskers, Nordri observed gravely, "Aniel must have been a sore loss, Lady, so good a huntsman as he was."

"Yes."  Though Dírmaen had proved a better, and Halpan and Gaernath grew more skillful under his tutelage.  "Yet in truth, we miss his good cheer more than the game.  We Dúnedain are a grim lot."

"You have had ample cause for grimness."  Nordri lifted his cup in toast.  "Now that our foes are slain, may we have the peace to find prosperity."

"A hearty aye to that."  Long years of peace she had had here, when she dwelt alone, the land empty save for beast and bird, with only a rare glimpse of Elves faring their obscure ways.  The tranquility of those days was lost to her now that she bore the care of her scattered folk, but soon she would be able to recapture snatches of the solitude she craved, as spring brought herb and shrub to leaf and flower.  Her store of simples had been much diminished by a sickly winter, and she would have to roam far to replenish it.

Passing to the next bench, she found Grani smiling consideringly at her as she filled a horn for him.  "Did I hear, Lady," he wondered, "that you might wish better ware to serve your ale?"

"I seem to remember that Veylin suggested as much, and recommended your work."  Saelon raised an eyebrow.  She had not noticed, in the days of their poverty, that Dwarves' minds ran so much on trade.  "Do you have a taste for lamb, Master?"

"One of the delights of spring, is it not?"

Saelon laughed.  "Is this a neighborly visit or a trade embassy?"

Sitting beside his master, Thyrnir asked, brows knit in puzzlement, "Is there a difference?"

Perhaps not, to them.  Was that not their nature and pleasure, to make and mend, buy and sell?  And these others did not have cause, as Veylin did, for less self-interested good will.

Not that even he was disinterested.  When she finally took her place at the head of the company, the dwarf-chieftain rumbled, "Halpan tells me that Argonui favors your return to Srathen Brethil, now that the fiends are slain."

"Did you expect otherwise?"  She had benefited from Veylin's counsel last summer, when the Rangers sent by Argonui's father took for granted that she would bring her folk east across the Lhûn—and from his support, ablaze with gems at the head of a train of stern Dwarves, when the sons of Elrond came to collect them after Arathorn's death in Srathen Brethil.  Her gaze sought Dírmaen and found him, removed as ever he was, near the door.  Watching.

When the other Rangers had gone, he had remained: a remote kinsman, token of their distant Chieftain's care . . . and authority.  He, too, wished them back in their ancestral lands, nearer the rest of the Dúnedain.

"Have you heard aught else from Lindon?" Veylin asked.

He was also far from where he ought to be, in the peaks of the Ered Luin.  What had brought and what kept him here, Saelon did not know, and she valued his friendship too much to pry.  "No," she sighed, and considered him thoughtfully.  "You have some acquaintance with the Elves of the Havens.  Having protested our presence, will they continue to ignore us?  Maelchon will sow in a few weeks, and then we will be bound here until harvest."

Lowering his cup, Veylin gave a wry snort.  "Who can tell, with Elves?  One year, even several, often means little to them.  They may be waiting to see if you return to Srathen Brethil of your own accord, or something else may have their attention just now."

"You are not concerned on your own account?" Halpan asked, reaching for the stoup to refill his drinking horn.  Though only half Saelon's age, he was the eldest man surviving of the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil, and wished to be more of a captain and steward to her.

Veylin shrugged.  "Not particularly.  I have negotiated with Círdan before, and claims that cannot be lightly dismissed."

"Would you speak on our behalf?" Halpan proposed.

The Dwarf's gaze slid to her, and he smiled in rueful sympathy at her uneasy frown.  "Do you not know the lore of the Elder Days, as your Lady does?  I have traded with Lindon, but I have no friends there.  Certainly I will stand by you at need, as we stood together against the fiends in Srathen Brethil, but you would do better to make your own peace with Círdan.  Your forefathers were long the allies of the Elves. They remember Dwarves otherwise."

Her cousin gave her a puzzled look.  "What tale is this?"

"Thingol's death, and the battle of Sarn Athrad."  Saelon sometimes told the ancient tales in the hall, to while away the long winter nights, yet that one she had avoided, though Veylin claimed descent from Belegost rather than Nogrod.  "Perhaps," she mused aloud, watching the Dwarf, "it would be better if we left you out of it altogether.  Srathen Brethil is not so far."

His russet eyes narrowed.  Veylin misliked the sea, but he understood the hold it had on her . . . and honored it, as no one else living did.  "You must do as you think best, Lady," he rumbled, setting his cup aside.  "I have told you, however, that I consider my own interests touched by this."  And that she should not shield him from quarrels.

Halpan looked between them, dark brows lowered.

Saelon smiled, to reassure them both.  "Master Veylin, have I not made sure that you had the chance to speak on such matters in the past?"

The Dwarf chuffed, and his narrow look grew amused.  "Well, see that you do not neglect it, now that you have grown so seemly."

Rekk, who had been watching all this in silence, gave a bark of a laugh and stuck his face into his cup, as if to hide a smirk.  Halpan stared at the Dwarf, then back at Saelon and Veylin.  "I think," her cousin murmured, so that his words might go no further, "I missed much, last year."

"You kept other counsel, then," Rekk reminded him brusquely, staring back across the length of the hall at the Ranger, whose eyes had rested on them for some time now.

"This is no place to be plainer."  Veylin did not look at Dírmaen.  "Lady," he asked, with careful formality, "would you and your kinsman, here—" bowing his head to Halpan "—do us the honor of visiting our halls, so we might make some return for your generous hospitality?"

"I should like that."  It would be a relief to be able to loosen the guard on her tongue.  Since Halpan and Dírmaen had dwelt there a few days before setting out against the _raugs_ last autumn, Saelon feared some comment might reveal her own familiarity.  "Though might I ask," she wondered, uncertain if she presumed too much, "for you to extend the invitation to one other?"

"Who?"

"Gaernath."  He was the nearest thing she had to a confidant regarding the Dwarves, and her messenger to them.  It seemed unfair that he should know the way to the front door—as even Halpan did not—and not be granted entry.

Veylin's disapproving look lightened.  "Ah, your young champion.  Yes," he allowed, after consideration, "he will be welcome as well."

"And how," Halpan asked dryly, "are we to guarantee our kinswoman's honor, as you lead us all blindly to your door?"

"We will manage something, I am sure," Veylin replied.  While his tone was mollifying, Saelon could see irritation in the set of his brows and something like irked mischief tugging one side of his flowing beard.  Any insinuation that he was a threat to her honor angered the Dwarf, and she hoped he would not make sport of Halpan in revenge, since her cousin had never credited such slander.

"Lady."  Saelon looked around and saw that Bersi had come over.  "Shall we conclude our bargain now?"

"Certainly," she said, turning to face him.  Beyond, Fram and Oski were carefully maneuvering the copper cauldron through the door, which was little wider.  Fransag paused in her cooking to watch as they brought it past her.  It was a thing to admire: more than twice the size of their largest kettle, gleaming warmly even in the lamplight.  With this, she could provide hospitality fitting her station, the Lady of a lineage, not merely a few households cobbled together from surviving scraps of kin.

"Do you remember what is owing?" Bersi asked.

"Two sheep with good fells, two geese, and two bushels of honey is what we agreed, is it not?"

The coppersmith looked pleased by the exactness of her memory.  "It is."

Best to be forthright.  "I have sent Maon for the sheep, and save for my two best laying pairs, you may have your pick of the geese, but I am sorry to say, Master, that I do not have so much honey at this time.  Unforeseen circumstances depleted my stores, and it will be some months before I have so much again.  Would you be willing to wait, or is there something of comparable value you might take in its stead?"

"What would you offer in its place?"  Bersi's frown turned calculating.

"You first asked for more geese.  Would that be acceptable?"

"In part.  I think I heard," he angled his head, "that you have lambs to spare?"

The matched cups might have to wait.  "You did."

"When you have approved the cauldron, make an offer."

Saelon rose and went to where the great vessel sat on its three stubby legs.  It did not wobble when she laid her hands on it.  Such a massive, weighty thing, cast all in one piece.  Her mother had owned a cauldron so large, of beaten bronze; a seam had parted one day, as they seethed the meat to feast some high guest.  As children, they had giggled to see it piss the fire out, but her mother had not found it funny.  That would not happen with this: the metal was thick and, so far as she could feel, even.  When rapped, it gave a deep, true note, like a mellow-mouthed bell.

What was a fair price?  The eyes of all the Dwarves were on her, as well as some of the most judgmental of her own people: Fransag and her old mother, Dírmaen.  A beautiful thing; but truly, an extravagance, beyond their present need.  Saelon wondered if her brother had felt like this, when buying the blood horses he loved.  She regarded the coppersmith, who waited with the inexpressive stolidness of his kind.  A dear friend of Veylin, she had gathered, but never more than polite to her.  Might he have invited the inspection, counting on just admiration of his work to join with guilt in fixing a higher payment?

Geese: meat and grease and feathers; honeycomb: sweetening and wax.  "The sheep, two geese, and a lamb."

"No honey at all?"

That sounded almost plaintive.  "I could give you a pint now, in place of a goose, but no more.  Wax is not so scarce."

"Light wax or dark?"

"Dark."

She thought Bersi cast a glance at Veylin, but their chieftain continued to watch with the same close but detached interest as the other Dwarves, not even acknowledging the look.  "The sheep, four geese, the honey, and half a stone of wax."

Looking to Fransag, Saelon asked, "Do we have so much wax?"  That was more than thrice what he would have gotten, a generous recompense for the disappointing lack of sweetness.

"Oh, aye."  The goodwife was staring at the cauldron again, besotted.  "The crooked oaken box, atop the little keg of fish oil."

Saelon smiled.  So much for striking a better deal.  "Would you like to come and pick out your geese," she invited Bersi, "while I unearth the wax?"

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Notes

**Hares** : the hare ( _Lepus_ sp.) is a larger animal than a rabbit, with longer ears and legs, and does not live in burrows; they usually breed in March (which is why they are "mad" then).  Young hunting hounds were often started on hares.

**Hinds** : female deer, especially [red deer](http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/usscotfax/outdoors/images/accessstalking-450.jpg) ( _Cervus elaphas_ ).  Readers in North America should think wapiti elk (also _Cervus elaphas_ ), not white-tailed ( _Odocoileus virginianus_ ) or mule deer ( _Odocoileus hemionus_ ).

**Packman** : peddler.

**Scone** : originally, a flour-and-milk bannock cooked on a griddle.

**Blaeberry** (also bilberry, _Vaccinium myrtilis_ ): one of many closely related small shrubs producing edible berries.  This is not the same species as North American blueberries.

**"Thingol's death, and the battle of Sarn Athrad"** : a terrible tale of the potency of gems and vengeance ( _The Silmarillion_ , Ch. 22, "The Ruin of Doriath").  Thingol desired Dwarvish craftsmen of Nogrod, one of the two great dwarf-cities of the Ered Luin, to set the Silmaril into the Nauglamír, the Necklace of the Dwarves; and when the greatest works of the Elves and Dwarves had been united, they disputed its ownership.  Thingol scorned the Dwarves shamefully, and in rage they slew him.  Only two of that company survived to bring word to Nogrod.  In their grief and wrath for vengeance, Nogrod asked aid of the Dwarves of Belegost, who rather tried to dissuade them, to no avail.  Dwarves took and plundered Menegroth, the Thousand Caves their forefathers had delved for Thingol; but as they returned home, their numbers diminished by battle and burdened with the spoils, they were utterly annihilated at the ford of Sarn Athrad by Beren and the host of Elves at his command.

**"Light wax or dark?"** : newly laid wax is white; it darkens as it ages, and impurities work their way in.  Lighter-colored wax is therefore more desirable for candles and craftworking.  Since Saelon keeps her bees in skeps, most of the wax harvested is older, darker brood comb.  Thanks to Gwynnyd for getting me in touch with a beekeeper!


	4. Woman's Place

_I am heaping the bones of the old mother_  
_To build us a hold against the host of the air;_  
_Granite the blood-heat of her youth_  
_Held molten in hot darkness against the heart_  
_Hardened to temper under the feet_  
_Of the ocean cavalry that are maned with snow_  
_And march from the remotest west._  
_This is the primitive rock, here in the wet_  
_Quarry under the shadow of waves_  
_Whose hollows mouthed the dawn; little house each stone_  
_Baptized from that abysmal font  
_ _The sea and secret earth gave bonds to affirm you._

\--Robinson Jeffers, "To the House"

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"You have no one to blame but yourself," Bersa scolded, as if their guest were a prentice whose greed had left them on short commons.  "If you had kept to your end of the bargain, this would be mead rather than wine."

Veylin was glowering furiously at him, but the Lady only smiled.  "I am sorry to have disappointed you, Master—and to be deprived of your mead—but truly, it could not be avoided."

"I think the wine is very good," the red-headed one said, hesitantly.

Rekk glanced Auð's way, eyebrows raised in mute question . . . but his mouth was twitching with hard-held amusement and his eyes bright with mischief.

Folding her arms over her breast, Auð leaned back into the settle between her sons and waited to see how this would play out.  In truth, there was much potential for humor here.  If the cook did not go back to his saucepans, her brother might break his stick on his fat head; Siggr was still dumb with appalled astonishment, a very satisfactory state of affairs; and the Men looked more ridiculous than dangerous, their seats fitting them so ill.

At least, the menfolk looked ridiculous, the knees of their long, booted legs cocked high.  The Lady had drawn her deerskin-slippered feet up under her wine-colored woolen skirts and sat neatly composed in the face of Bersa's temper.  Was such assurance careless presumption, or the ease of familiarity?  She would not have thought it out of place if this Saelon had been one of Veylin's companions, rather than a woman of alien race.  Auð knew not how to judge the fitness of such behavior, never having seen any folk but her own.

Oh, tales she had heard aplenty.  Before their courting grew earnest, Thekk had sketched other peoples for her with quick, shrewd strokes on her slate, to shock her and make her laugh.  Little Hobbits, who wore their beards on their feet; Elves tall and slender as spears, stylish and perilous.  And Men?  They had been neither amusing nor elegant: a flabby, besotted publican; a grasping, haughty lordling; a slovenly ploughman, feet clotted with clay.  Soft, all said; greedy.  Scornful.

Yet Rekk called these threadbare Men allies, and her brother had crafted a jewel fit for a betrothal gift for their Lady.

The tallest, the dark-haired Man—Halpan?  Such peculiar names—had topped her by a full pace when they were introduced, and their proportions were odd; long-limbed and lean, stretched like wire.  Stranger was the nakedness of their faces.  Auð kept wanting to avert her eyes: there was something indecent in such unguarded expressions.  But were not beards the mark and pride of the Khazâd?  Men did not grow them until they were of full age, she had been told, while Elves had to be ancient indeed to get one . . . and even then, only the men of other races had them.  Stroking her own luxuriant whiskers, she frowned.  Halpan seemed to be the elder of the menfolk and spoke with more authority, though his face was bald as an egg; Gaernath—the young kinsman the Lady had fearlessly defended—had a ruddy fringe, downy as a babe's, and was plainly a gawky beardling.  Thekk had once told her that some Men shaved their beards, to look more like Elves, but that sounded perverse indeed.

Strangest and most unsettling was the Lady's difference in shape and voice from her menfolk, so marked that if Auð had not been told of their kinship, she would have thought her a separate breed.  Perhaps that was why she had made no attempt to conceal her sex, though among folk of other race.  Or was it only another instance of her dubious daring?  A woman who did not scruple to dwell alone might scorn disguise as well.

"You knew the bargain," Bersa growled, unappeased.  "How could it not be avoided?  You ought to have set the agreed-upon measure aside."

This was trespassing beyond a jest.  The Broadbeam was accusing their guest of not honoring a bargain?  And not even his own!  This was not about the lack of mead, but the frustration of his own voracious hunger for sweetness.  Bersa was growing senile, even before his beard whitened.

"So I did, Master Bersa."  Despite its high pitch, the Lady's voice was firm, and her spare, bare face, though still civil, unrepentant.  "Until my own folk had need of it.  It was a sickly winter, particularly among the children, and honey is a part of many remedies."

Sickness: another thing Auð knew by rumor alone; one of the frailties of Men.  If children had been threatened, however, it was only to be expected that an agreement with outsiders would go to the wall.  Here at last was something womanly about Saelon.

"My brother may find that slight excuse, Lady," Bersi rumbled, casting a louring glance at Bersa, "but I have no complaint."

The cook gave him an ill-served look in return and stomped back off towards the kitchen.

"Some allowance must be made for their recent hardships," Grani observed tolerantly, trying to soothe nettled tempers.  Having taken two lambs in return for the carefully packed chest of cups sitting by the door, waiting on their guests' departure, he was in excellent temper himself.

Yet the Lady's mouth grew austere, even as Halpan smiled gratefully at the condescension.  Auð knew well the look of those fallen from high estate, that glint of hard-held pride; she had seen it among the Longbeards when they first arrived at Sulûnduban, after thirty years of impoverished wandering.  Her gown looked as if it had been turned and altered to fit, but this woman of Men had known better and meant to repair her fortunes.

If all she could spare were a few lambs, however, little wonder that Veylin despaired of ever selling her that striking sea-jewel.

Nordri set down his goblet.  "Trifles," he dismissed, echoing Auð's own thought, then turned to the Lady.  "A stone here, a bushel there . . . let us talk rather of what you have in abundance."  After Auð's kinsmen, he had known these Men longest, and valued them near as much.

"Please," she urged, her quizzical smile plain.  "Do you have some need for wrack?"

Everyone, even Veylin, knit their brows and stared.  "Wrack?" the mason questioned.

"Alas," the Lady sighed, her smile brightening with what seemed like dry humor.  "The weed the sea heaps on the shore."

"The stuff you served us at the Yule feast?" Rekk protested.

Now she chuckled.  "No, wrack is the weed you do not eat.  We feed it to our crops, but there is plenty and to spare."

With an amused snort, Nordri shook his head strongly.  "I was thinking of something more in our province.  You know how much I admire the limestone of your cliff.  As you can see—" he gestured at the walls around them "—our hall is delved in darker rock than yours.  Might we quarry some of your stone to brighten things here?  We would not," he hastened to assure her, "take it from the cliff where you dwell, but from the other scarp, across the way."

The Lady gazed around the hall; calculating how much would be required to face it, Auð guessed.  When she replied, however, she had grown very sober.  "I have no idea what value to place on such a thing . . . and, in all honesty, the cliffs are not mine, not to buy or sell.  Though I have long dwelt there, Lindon has claimed the land and wishes us off it.  What your own relations with Círdan may be—" she glanced at Veylin "—I do not know.  Do as you think best.  How could we grudge you the means to make your home fairer?"

Rising, Nordri bowed.  "Your scrupulousness does you credit, Lady."

Yes, such candid integrity was praiseworthy in a neighbor and partner in trade; little wonder the men thought so well of her.  But it would not hasten the rebuilding of her hoard.

"Are you coming to table?" Bersa roared from the end of the hall.  "Or is this great fish to burn black?"

Veylin caught Auð's eye, brows beetled thunderously low.  _Your friend's brother_ , she gestured, since Bersi's back was to her.  That earned her a grimace before the woman of Men turned to him, one arch brow raised.  Veylin rolled his eyes and took his stick from the table beside him.  "Shall we dine, Lady?  If I recall, you have a fondness for salmon."

Fortunately Bersa was too proud of his reputation to allow ill-humor to mar a meal, for it was a noble fish, like a monstrous trout, with enough rich flesh to feed them all, near thirty filling the long table.  The second remove, goose pie thick with truffles, was so toothsome it inclined even Veylin to pardon the Broadbeam.  Auð wondered why Bersa should take such pains to feed folk he scorned, until she gathered from the convivial conversation that the Men had hosted many of their people at a sating harvest feast last autumn.  He was, it seemed, determined to impress the superiority of Dwarven cookery upon the Lady, who was no novice in the kitchen herself.

Saelon conceded the point after the boar ham and morels, mollifying Bersa by attempting to learn more of truffles from him . . . though the cook appeared to take as much satisfaction from baulking her as the rest of them did from the meal.  When the glistening pudding, studded with blackcurrants, and a broad apple tart with cheese had been demolished, and the prentices sent to clear up the kitchen, others made their excuses and rose, pleading work.

Auð huffed into her goblet, as she savored the vintage her brother had brought out to cap the sumptuous meal.  Who could do much work, after such a repast?  More likely, they would gather to gossip in one of the smaller halls, or in their own chambers, turning the gathering over and over between them, seeking something of advantage in what they had learned of their neighbors.

Only those who knew their guests well, the principals of this venture, lingered over the wine and nuts to confer with their guests: her brother and brother-in-law, Nordri and his son Nyr.  And not even all their guests.  Gaernath had offered to help the prentices, which impressed her with his manners and industry.  He seemed on good if chaffing terms with many of the lads, especially her eldest, who towed the gangling beardling, long arms stacked high with platters, towards the scullery.

Eyeing her, the only newcomer, with uncertainty, Halpan cracked a walnut and said with glaring discretion, "I would like to hear more about what I missed last year."

Rekk snorted and set down his goblet.  "You should feel free to speak before Auð, who is near kin, and heard much of you already.  What is it you think you were not privy to?"

The Man looked between his Lady and Veylin.  "I did not know you two kept such close council."

"Is that not one of the duties of a lord, among Men?" Veylin asked mildly.  "To keep counsel with allies and neighbors?"

"From whom else was I to learn aught of Lindon?" the Lady wanted to know.

"Râdbaran?" Halpan suggested, without conviction.  Auð wondered who that might be.

"He came too late," the Lady replied coolly, and raised her cup to drink.  "And even then, told me little that I had not known when Falathar landed.  He did not think I needed to know."

"If we had gone east with them," the Man observed, "you would not have."

Saelon sniffed.  "They would have taken Halladan into their counsels and given consideration to his judgment.  Am I Lady to our folk, or a dry-nurse?"

"The sons of Elrond did not think you no more than a minder," Rekk assured her.

"I know," she sighed, giving a sardonic smile.  "Dwarves . . . even Elves, have given me no cause for complaint, so far as respect is concerned.  If anything, you have treated me better than I deserve—especially last summer, when my mood was so black.  It is the men of my own race who vex me."

Halpan looked wounded.  "Have I ever disputed your authority?" he asked plaintively.

Reaching across the table, the Lady laid a hand on his.  "No.  Nor is it your fault that youth prevented you from championing me more ably.  You would do better now."

Auð carefully schooled her expression to blandness.  If Saelon was always this tender with the shortcomings of her menfolk, no wonder they vexed her.  She glanced at her own men, wondering if they were so often abroad because they preferred such indulgence.

"You could have done better then," Rekk rumbled, reassuring her.  "Where would you be, if Veylin had not upbraided you, to stiffen your resolve?"

Halpan lifted his goblet to Veylin in acknowledgement, grinning, seemingly without shame.  "Not here, drinking your good wine."

Her brother chuffed, shaking his head.  "You are too easily discouraged, youngster.  Rewards—" he paused to take a draught, emphasizing his point "—require perseverance.  Still, you have more promise than most Men I have known.  Saelon might make something of you yet."

"Dírmaen is a fitter master, I think," the Lady replied, smiling.

Frowning—so many names she did not know—Auð saw this pleased her brother not at all.  "Dírmaen is a stalwart fighter, and a Man of honor," he allowed, too respectful for good will, "but I hope you will not take him as a model in all things."

"I cannot," Halpan assured him, rueful regret on his smooth, open face, "so long as you hold my Ranger's star."

Star?  This callow youth had been a Man of the Star?  And her brother had gotten his badge from him?  There were tales here she had not been told.

Veylin turned his cup in his hands.  "Was your Chieftain angered by its loss?"

The Man was silent for a few breaths, then shrugged.  "It was . . . overlooked.  Argonui was glad to hear my plans to encourage our scattered folk to return to Srathen Brethil."

"All of them?"  Rekk set the jug down and took up his goblet again.

"I did not say that."  Halpan looked to his Lady, who had been watching Veylin thoughtfully through this exchange.  "I know Saelon will not willingly leave the sea."

"Maelchon," Saelon pointed out, denying her singularity, "will be loathe to return to the stony soil of our glen, if this year's crop is anything like the last."

"Why," Halpan asked Veylin hesitantly, "do you mistrust Dírmaen?"

Her brother took his time, considering the young Man before he answered.  "He is not his own man.  He serves another master: one who does not seem to have your best interests at heart . . . and who considers mine not at all.  The mistrust is not all on one side."

"No."  And Halpan said no more.

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Dírmaen found Saelon more than a league from the cliffs, fingering the buds of an alder and frowning thoughtfully at the ground nearby.  For a Lady, she was singularly hard to espy: her undyed homespun blended into the landscape, and her slight stature allowed her to shelter in the stunted scrub of the half-frozen bog like a slim, winter-coated doe.  In truth, from a distance, she was easily mistaken for a maiden, or a woman of the Edain.

And she was as vulnerable, her adamant Dúnedain temper and keen-edged dwarf-knife notwithstanding.  "What brings you so far from the hall, Lady?  Is there not ample alder along the stream at Habad-e-Mindon?"

"More than ample," she agreed, looking around in surprise.  "Is anything amiss at home?"

"No," he assured her, then came to his point.  "You should not stray so far."  What might have crept up on her, if she had not been aware of him when he was not trying to be silent?

Her lips quirked in amusement and she gave a mild snort.  "This is not far.  How am I to replenish my store of herbs, sitting douce in the hall?"  When he frowned at her easy dismissal of the danger, she set a fist on her hip and sighed.  "Dírmaen, I have roamed this country for more than a score of years.  I will not come to grief here."

So she had . . . and by some blessing, perhaps that of the Elves whose lands these were, found no ill.  After what she had suffered of late, however, she ought not to be so assured.  "These lands are not as empty as they were.  You should not rove alone."  Wise she was, in many ways, but in this she was a fool.

Indeed, she laughed at his concern, a bright sound like the clap of a bell.  "No, they are not, more's the pity!  I cannot escape you all even here, on a frosty bog."

"You would flee from your people?"

"I did," she said, "but they followed me."  He never knew how to take her, when she spoke in that sardonic tone.  "Oh, do not look so grave, Dírmaen.  Surely I am allowed some respite.  How can a body think, mewed with folk who chatter like finches?  You can hardly hear the sea from the cliff-foot anymore."

"You cannot hear the sea here, Lady," he pointed out.

"No, but you would hear the murmur of water moving under the frost, if you would be silent for a while.  And I might recall whether this is where the orchids bloom."

The wind whispering over the land he could hear, and the lonesome cry of an unmated curlew; far off, the yelping of geese, gathering in their squadrons, preparing for departure.  Where did they go?  North, beyond his ken.  "I hear no water.  How should I?  What is not mired in moss is frozen fast."

From her look and her sigh, he had disappointed her.  "What is your errand here, Dírmaen?"

"To guard you, Lady."

"And if I do not wish to be guarded?"  Eyes perilously bright, she held her head high, though it was still a span below his.  So a wren might face a jackdaw too near its nest.

"Why would you not wish to be kept safe?"  Most women would have been flattered by such an attention.

"I have kept myself safe so well for so long that my brother sent his children and followers into my protection," she declared, almost fiercely.  "The helm is the symbol of my office, not armor against frailty, or I would wear it.  Why should our best huntsman and warrior trail after me like a hound, when he might be useful elsewhere?"

Dírmaen did not understand how anyone in possession of their wits could turn their back on their kin and seek solitude.  He had spent much time alone or among strangers, in the course of his duty, and even so quiet a man as he found the lonesomeness a sore trial.  Having first met Saelon when she had long been overburdened with caring for her folk, he had been willing to give some credence to whispered tales of sea-madness or the self-loathing of shame; yet over the winter he had come to know her better, and found her one of the sanest people of his acquaintance.

Save for her fondness for walking the strand before the gales quite died, and this habit of tramping about the countryside uncompanioned.  She could not think so meanly of herself; she did not.  As a healer alone, she was too valuable to risk.

Though there might be a purpose behind her wishing to be out from under his eye, rather than a whim.  Saelon had gone riding with Halpan and Gaernath yesterday and returned late.  This morning, when asked, Halpan told some facile tale of how she chafed in the confinement of the hall and they had given her an outing . . .  yet Unagh said she had worn her good gown.  Where would she have worn that, save to see the Dwarves?  Dírmaen supposed he should be grateful she had taken her kinsmen with her.

But he was not.  "I did not mean to offend, Lady," he apologized, bowing stiffly.  "Yet as a Ranger, I beg you to reconsider.  I only ask that you take a companion.  It need not be me."  He would have thought he had earned some trust by now, having been with them nearly a year; but she preferred the counsel of Veylin to that of the Dúnedain.

"I will do as I think best," she said curtly, drawing her cloak more closely about her.

"Then I will leave you to your simples."  If only he could be sure that she did as she thought, and not as the Dwarf thought, he would have been less discontent as he walked back the way he came.

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Notes

**"growing senile, even before his beard whitened"** : Bersa is elderly, at 225 years old.  Dwarvish aging patterns are not like those of Men; once they reach physical maturity around 40, they remain in their prime well past their two-hundredth year.  In prosperous circumstances, many Dwarves—like Bersa—grow obese around 200 years of age.  Otherwise they show no signs of age until around 240, at which point they decline fairly rapidly—wrinkling skin, hair going white (they never go bald)—and die around 250.  These figures are for Longbeards, who are somewhat longer-lived than Dwarves of other kindreds.  It is rare for a Dwarf to live past 300 (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 284–5).

**Wrack** : dried seaweed, or a particular variety of [brown seaweed](http://www.aphotomarine.com/images/seaweed/brown_seaweed_bladder_wrack_fucus_vesiculosus_27-06-10_1.jpg) ( _Fucus_ sp.).  The word is similar to Khuzdul _Rakhâs_ , "Orcs," which is undoubtedly why they all look so bemused.

**Truffles** ( _Tuber_ sp.): the [underground fruiting body of fungi](http://blog.branca.com/wp-content/uploads/or_blk_wht_truffles_640.gif), considered a great delicacy (some sell for more than their weight in gold).  One suspects that Dwarves discovered them.  These would be black winter truffles ( _Tuber melanosporum_ ), the most pungent variety.

**Morels** ( _Morchella_ sp.): an edible wild mushroom; these are [common morels](http://liviuflorean.com/upload/uploaded/Morchella_esculenta.jpg) ( _Morchella esculenta_ ), which have a honeycombed cap.

**Pudding** : this is a steamed suet pudding, not the cornstarch-based stuff you buy in a little box and mix with milk (which is technically a kind of blancmange).

**Blackcurrants** ( _Ribes nigrum_ ): the fruit of this shrub is very high in vitamin C, and was traditionally associated with longevity.  In Britain, this is the standard "purple" flavor, as grape is in North America.

**Dry-nurse** : one who cares for infants, but does not breast-feed them.

**Doe** : a female deer, usually referring to the [fallow deer](http://www.animalcorner.co.uk/britishwildlife/graphics/fallowdeer.jpg) ( _Cervus dama_ ), which is smaller than the red deer.

**Adamant** : ancient name for a impenetrably hard stone, usually considered to be diamond.

**Mewed** : a mews is a building where falcons and hawks are kept.

**Curlew** ( _Numenius arquata_ ): a wading bird with a long, curving bill that nests on rough grassland and boggy moors in spring.

**Wren** ( _Troglodytes troglodytes_ ): a small brown bird, so pert and bold that it was sometimes called the king of the birds.

**Jackdaw** ( _Corvus monedula_ ): a [small crow with a grey body](http://www.langholmmoorland.co.uk/pictures/jackdaw0206big.jpg) and distinctive pale grey eyes.


	5. Onset with Eternity

_Listen! you hear the grating roar_  
_Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling_  
_At their return, up the high strand,_  
_Begin, and cease, and then again begin,_  
_With tremulous cadence slow, and bring  
_ _The eternal note of sadness in._

\--Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"

 * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

To assert her liberty, lest the little remaining be eroded further, Saelon set out early the next morning with a hearty dinner in the bottom of her packbasket.  She climbed the slope to the tower while Fokel angrily thrust a dead dog-fox under Dírmaen's nose, as if the Ranger was remiss in not having extirpated any vermin that might threaten a lamb.  The collie had done its duty, and she was not particularly concerned for her flock, despite its new value.  Yet finding the vixen was work more fitting to Dírmaen's skills—and more useful—than serving as a guard of honor for her as she picked posies.

Not that picking posies was trifling: the virtues of herbs were often most potent while the plant was in flower.  But unless he was willing to lend a hand, there was no reason for him to accompany her . . . and she did not want him.  He had spoilt her good opinion of him with his grave-faced misgivings, whether they arose from suspicion of her alliance with the Dwarves or doubt in her competence to look after herself.  The want of confidence had been unexpectedly wounding.

With luck, the long tramp to the shingle-filled bay where coltsfoot grew in such profusion, three headlands to the south, would sweat out her ill humor; or the wind, Gwaeron going out with a roar, would blow it away.  At the least, there would be no mortal soul to be offended by her crabbed silence or curt speech.  The ever-present thunder of the driven waves on the rocky shore and the cries of gliding seabirds was company enough; the taste of salt in the keen air brought savor back to life, as she strode through the budding heads of thrift and squills.

Beyond the tower hill, a broad belt of machair ran between the teeth of the stony shore and a low cliff: both dark, unlike the sand and pale heights of the bay she had chosen for her home.  On and on it ran, near a league to the next headland, a long, low finger of rock so straight and regular she believed it was a wall, the work of the Elder Days or the Númenóreans, running out into the frothing waves.  She would have to ask Veylin.

Then on to a crooked bay, half shingle, half sand, where the tide pools grew warm in the summer, near the mouth of a great cave awash at high tide.  At this season the water was cold, bitter cold; but still she paused to see the red and pale green sea-flowers in bloom, their fleshy petals swaying as if in a breeze beneath the wind-whipped surface of the pool.  Strange to see such peace, here in a precious lee, amid the din of the surf and flying clots of spume.

Up the hill, and down to another strip of machair, this one narrow, backed not by a cliff but the steep green flanks of the higher land, fronted by small bays nibbled from the edge of the land.  The fourth, broader than the others, was full of shingle, growling and rattling in the churn of the waves; in the trough of the higher ridges, yellow coltsfoot flowers were strewn thick as stars in a clear night sky.  Heaving off her packbasket, Saelon sat on rounded cobbles long enough to take a bite and a draught from her waterskin, staring out over the water—due west, into the eye of the wind—and breathed deeply of that clean, sharp air.  The world might be round, but one could imagine such purity blew straight from Taniquetil.

All her days had been spent like this, not so long ago . . . harvesting the herbs she took as her gift to Srathen Brethil at Yule, when Halladan would ride over the mountains, grumbling in the wet and ice, to fetch her.  Working in her little garden; tending her few sheep and geese and bees; spinning and weaving and the other small chores needful to keep one woman and a garron and a dog alive and well.

Had it really been almost a year and a half since this lordship had been thrust upon her by Halladan's untimely death?  More than two since she had reluctantly agreed to foster Gaernath, then a slip of a lad, made sullen by his father's new wife.  It seemed but yesterday, that this stolen freedom was the measure of her life.

Rising, she drew her knife and bent to the task that had brought her here.

 * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

The sun was high in the sky when Saelon shouldered her basket again and stretched her cramped back.  She had harvested enough for a season as deviled with coughs as that just past, and for Rian to try her hand at another flower wine; now she wanted a bit of shelter to eat her dinner in, before the tramp back.  The wind was like a spring torrent, pouring across the land so forcefully it pushed her up the last, highest ridge of cobbles and towards a sprawling clump of whin halfway across the flat strip of machair.

As good a place as any, in this open land.  She took a few paces towards its bristly, wide-flung branches, then stooped to finger a patch of ground ivy.  There was less about Habad than there had been, so much had she made into tea for Gràinne, and this had particularly vigorous blooms.  There was still plenty of room in her basket—

She glanced up with a start at a sharp thump, more felt through the ground than heard in this young gale, to find a horse between her and the whin, looking at her askance.  For a brief instant, she wondered how one of their beasts could have strayed so far; but Saelon did not know the long grey face, ornamented with a snip and a star . . . and a headstall flashing with blue gems.  They stared at each other as she slowly straightened.  The tall mare stamped again, narrowing her nostrils and putting her ears half back.

After a few cautious backward steps, Saelon walked north along the edge of the cobble ridge, watching the beast out of the corner of her eye.  If it charged, she could retreat further into the shingle, treacherous footing for anything with hooves.  When she had gone perhaps a dozen paces, far enough that the horse tipped its ears forward again, she began to angle gradually inland.

The mare was having none of it.  Saelon halted, not wanting to annoy the beast further, for there was plenty to see from where she stood: the rest of the harness was as magnificent as the headstall.  Clearly, the animal was not simply astray.  Had some ill befallen its rider?

"Tinnu."  The voice was melodious, Elvish.  "Do not be afraid.  She will not hurt you."

Beyond the horse, in the lee of the whin, a raven-haired elf-man sat with his elbows on his knees, smiling reassuringly.  He was as showy as his steed, though windblown, clad in blue and silver-grey.  Saelon had met a few Elven folk of late, but this was the first who wore jewels, as was told in tales.  "Unless I should trouble you, no doubt."

He laughed, a joyful sound.  "No doubt!  You must be one of the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil, whom fate has cast upon our shores.  _Mae govannen_!"

"Well met," she returned, unwilling to expose her graceless Sindarin to scorn, and gave him a courteous bob.  "Yes, I am of that people.  You are from Lindon?"

Rising and coming a little nearer, he bowed gracefully.  "This last age.  Gwinnor, I am called."

She considered him.  He was very tall and bore a fine scabbard, a gem glittering on the hilt of his sword.  "I am Saelon."

"The Lady of Habad-e-Mindon?"

Though his eyes were bright with curiosity and delight, she had seen the first flicker of astonishment.  "That is my charge," she admitted, yet could not resist asking, dryly, "Had you expected someone less short, or less plain?"

"Both," he confessed, his smile undamped.  "Reports of your boldness, however, do not do you justice."

Saelon cocked a rueful eyebrow at him, wondering what reports those might be.  Word of her resistance to Râdbaran's counsel or her disgraceful scathing of the sons of Elrond?  Certainly her brusquerie last spring with Lindon's coastwarden, who, she had since learned, had sailed with the Mariner.  "Is that meant to be a compliment?"

Again he laughed.  "I see why you sort well with Dwarves, Lady.  They like plain speech.  Please," he stretched out a shapely hand towards the lee of the bush, "do not let us stand on ceremony when you are fatigued.  Will you come out of this torrent of wind?"

"Thank you."  Gwinnor spoke as graciously as a host; but then this was more his land than hers.  If he meant to do her harm, there would be little she could do to prevent it.

As she shrugged off her packbasket a few paces from a grey cloak that had been spread on the short turf, weighted against stray gusts with saddlebags and a cased bow and quiver, he asked, "What brings you so far from Habad-e-Mindon, afoot and alone, on a day such as this?"

" _Lhewig thind_ ," she replied, uncertain if he would know the country name for the plant.  When he gazed at her, puzzled, she wondered if she spoke it so ill and carefully drew the rolled cloth from the basket, turning back the corner to show him her harvest.  "Coltsfoot.  _Lótë rácina hwesto_.  I am a healer."

"Ah!  Is it more efficacious when collected on a day when Súlimo is so hearty?"

Saelon tucked the cloth back in and laid it gently down.  "I do not think so.  Is that one of the names of Manwë?"

Gwinnor laid an arm across the withers of his mount, which had come to stand beside him.  "You know the names of herbs in three tongues, but not those of the Elder King?"

He sounded curious rather than disdainful.  "I know what my grandmother could teach.  Learning has waned among us."  She shrugged regretfully, and lifted her dinner and waterskin from the bottom of the basket.  "Have you eaten?"  If he had come from the Havens and stayed west of the mountains, he must have ridden at least a hundred leagues.  An Elf might travel light in this land, but even so this was the season of hunger, when there was little greenstuff and the game was thin.

"Yes, Lady," he assured her.  "Please, do not scruple on my behalf."

Glad to be off her feet, she settled down and laid the cloth holding her dinner in her lap: bannocks split and filled with new cheese and early cress.  "And what brings you to these empty lands at this season, Gwinnor?"

"Círdan has sent me in embassy to you, Lady."

Saelon gazed up at that fair, immortal face, heart suddenly cold.  "You have come to see us back to Srathen Brethil?"

He clapped the horse, which was showing a keen interest in her meal, on the shoulder, sending it further off.  "It seems you do not know the function of an ambassador either, Lady," he said, with that same light courtesy.  "I have come to discover why your folk have not returned to their homes, and to discuss the matter with you.  If it comes to 'seeing you back' there, I will have done my job very ill."

She did not find that reassuring.  Looking down at her food, she found her appetite had died.

"Why so surprised?" he asked quietly, barely to be heard above the wind.  "You have had ample warning of our claims."

"We have," she agreed.

"Did you think we would not press them?"

"Some of us—" truly, was it any but she? "—are much attached to the place."

Gwinnor came and sat down, near enough that she could see the color of his eyes; grey-blue, like a falcon's back.  "That you are, Gaerveldis, we know well.  I have seen you myself, on the shore below the ruined tower, in the days before you kept sheep."

How long ago was that?  A dozen years, at least.  Had she glimpsed him as well, one of those Elves seen from afar?

"But it is more than you alone now, and matters have become complicated," he told her.  "That is why I must come to Habad-e-Mindon and see how things stand, and we must talk."

"I understand."  She stared at her hands, lying in her lap, and wondered if this was payment for her complaints that Râdbaran had not talked seriously with her.

"Lady," he pleaded, ducking his head to catch her gaze, giving her a small, plaintive-looking smile, "please, do not look so much as if Doom has come upon you, or you will make me feel crueler than I have been this last age."

So one might speak to a frightened child.  With an effort, Saelon collected herself and took up a bannock.  "Forgive me.  It was unexpected, hearing it so.  We had begun to think Lindon had forgotten us, with planting so near."  Her food had no savor, but she must eat.  Planting—at least she had not yet sown the wheat and oats that Veylin had slipped her at the end of her visit, though she had meant to do so very soon, to see if the longer-season grains would thrive as well as their bere, here by the sea.

Oh, yes . . . matters had become very complicated.

Dírmaen would have something to say, when she had gone out alone, and came home with an elf-lord in her train.

"You seem to know much of me already, Gwinnor," she said, as she reached for her waterskin.  "Will you tell me something of yourself?  I fear I offended the coastwarden Falathar by speaking of the Dwarves as I did.  I would have been more moderate if I had known the sack of Doriath was not merely a tale to him."

"Your grandmother knew something of the Elder Days, then, as well as herblore?"  He leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his long legs.  "Well, you will not offend me by speaking of Dwarves in any way, good or ill.  Vingenáro, my father named me; I followed Finrod Felagund across the ice to Middle-Earth and dwelt in Nargothrond, which the master builders of Belegost hewed for him.  After, I joined his sister's people in Eregion, which you may know as Hollin, hard by the West-door of Khazad-dûm.  I have worked and traded with Dwarves for three ages of the world, Lady," he assured her.  "That you have their friendship does you no harm with me.

"Indeed," he admitted with a smile, "I accepted Círdan's charge in part because I have missed Master Veylin of late.  He is one of the few Dwarves who will come to the Havens to trade, defying the sea.  How does the good gemsmith?"

Jewels glowed on the clasps of his fine tunic—flowers like blue and white flags—and the buckle of his sword belt was a marvel to behold: grey and cream and black stones set in silver, in the form of a hunting heron, the water at its feet blue and pearl, with slivers of green bearing tiny gold flag flowers.  Was any of this Veylin's work?  "Well, I believe.  Travel may perhaps be more of a burden to him, since his wounding by the _raug_."  It might be well to remind the Elf what had driven so many folk to these shores.

"That is what brought you together, was it not?  He must have been sorely wounded indeed," Gwinnor observed gravely, "to require assistance."

"If he had been a Man, he would have died."

"So bad as that?"  It was hard to read the stillness of that sculpted face.  "I hope it has not affected his smithcraft."

Did he value the work more than the man?  "It did not prevent him from slaying the _raug_ that injured him and slew his companions," she said.  "Though he is somewhat halt."

Gwinnor's smile was like the sun breaking through a sudden shower.  "He avenged himself?  That is good.  Dwarves are gloomy and tedious when such a debt weighs on their minds," he told her, with a sympathetic sigh, "as you have probably learned all too well."

Saelon kept her voice carefully bland as she replied, "I cannot say I found Master Veylin tedious.  The _raugs_ weighed on my mind as well."  Her own temper had been more savage than gloomy, but she did not now have even that slight excuse for rudeness.

"Forgive me, Lady."  He sobered immediately.  "I did not mean to make light of your greater griefs."

She shrugged.  "We have also taken what solace there is in revenge."  If they must leave Habad-e-Mindon, at least they would not have to rely on the mercy of a lord who had offered them no succor.  Shaking the crumbs from her cloth, she folded it and rose to repack her basket.  Her solitude broken, there was no reason to linger.  Whatever must come, she would rather it come soon.

"Will you tell me your story as we go, Lady?"  Gwinnor had remembered his formality, and came to gather his own gear.

"Certainly."  She would rather he heard it from her own lips, and not rely solely on report.

When he had donned his cloak—such a magnificent brooch: a pair of circling golden otters, one with a silver trout in its paws—set his baggage on his mount, and tightened the girth of his light saddle, he held his hand out to her.  "Will you mount, Lady?"

Saelon eyed the tall mare, then gazed thoughtfully on him.  "A kind offer," she acknowledged, bowing her head, "but no.  I do not mind the walk."

"If you do not care to ride pillion," Gwinnor offered, "I will be glad to walk.  It would do me good," he assured her gallantly, "after so many leagues on horseback."

"Then perhaps we can walk together and give your beast a rest," she suggested, and started north.

In a few strides he was at her side, bow case on his back, black brows low in a puzzled frown.  "Do you trust me so little, Lady?"

For a moment Saelon thought it strange that he had abandoned his mare; then she remembered that it did not wear a bridle—there were no reins to lead it by.  "Truly, I like to walk, and have less opportunity now that I am Lady."  His face smoothed, but she could see she had not been convincing; it was a peculiar thing, after all.  "My reputation has already suffered from my familiarity with outlandish menfolk," she added wryly.  "What will be said of me when I come home with you at my side, I do not care to think.  Just yesterday, the Ranger who has remained with us upbraided me for going abroad alone, as heedless as if I were still only Gaerveldis."

One side of his mouth quirked in a smile as he arched a brow.  "You escaped his watch?"

Saelon snorted and shook her head.  She wished she were certain Dírmaen was not on the higher ground inland, watching them now . . . although perhaps Gwinnor would be aware of him.  "I told him I needed no guard."

"Lady," he declared, his laughing eyes taking any sting from the words, "your menfolk must find you a trial."

"Why," she asked dryly, "do you think I came to the sea?"

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Notes

**Dog-fox** : a male fox.

**Shingle** : a [deposit of large rounded stones](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/photos/05/50/055057_7b836df7.jpg) (many fist-sized and larger) found on ocean shores.

**Coltsfoot** ( _Tussilago farfara_ ): a medicinal herb used for respiratory complaints, which blooms in March and April before putting up leaves.

**Thrift** (also sea pink; _Armeria maritima_ ): a [distinctive coastal plant](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3564/3333524283_15be453dc3_o.jpg),  with pink blooms from April to October; of no practical use.

**Squills** ( _Scilla verna_ ): a blue, wild-hyacinth-like flower, found along the coasts.

**"red and pale green sea-flowers"** : sea anemones, particularly the [beadlet anemone](http://www.marlin.ac.uk/imgs/o_actequ.jpg) ( _Actinia equina_ ).

**Taniquetil** : the "High White Peak," highest of the mountains fencing Aman, on whose summit dwell Manwë and Varda.

**_Mae govannen_** : Sindarin, "well met."

**The Mariner** : Eärendil.

**_Lhewig thind_** : Sindarin, "grey ear"; this is a literal translation of the Gaelic name for coltsfoot, _cluas liath_.

**_Lótë rácina hwesto_** : Quenya, "flower of broken breath"; this is loosely based on the Latin name for coltsfoot.  _Tussilago_ literally means "cough suppressant."

**Súlimo** : Quenya, "the Breather," "the Lord of the Breath of Arda"; one of the names of Manwë.

**Cress** (also watercress, _Rorippa nasturtium-aquaticum_ ): a highly nutritious water plant, commonly used as a salad green.

**Gaerveldis** : Sindarin, "sea-friend" (female).  A name the Elves of Lindon have given Saelon.  Thanks to Darth Fingon for the correct form of this name, and advice on Gwinnor's!

**"Nargothrond, which the master builders of Belegost delved for him"** : Tolkien said only that Dwarves of the Blue Mountains delved it, but given that Dwarves of Belegost made Thingol's Menegroth, which Finrod so admired, and Thingol advised him in his plans for a similar stronghold, I have guessed that Finrod used the same contractors.

**"flowers like blue and white flags"** : this is the Florentine iris or orris ( _Iris germanica_ var. _florentina_ ), a native to the Mediterranean whose flower inspired the fleur-de-lis.  The three inner petals or standards symbolize faith, wisdom, and valor.  The root, if dried for at least two years, gives a strong violet scent long and widely used in perfumery.

**Brooch** : today this is usually a purely ornamental pin; in the past, it was a sturdy (and often highly ornamented) clothing fastener.  This is a [penannular brooch](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_f98opUNuVXc/S222nsWOc6I/AAAAAAAAM_E/x42kTnhedJk/s400/Ancient+Irish+brooch.jpg): a circle with a gap for the pin to pass through.

**Otter** ( _Lutra lutra_ ): a [large aquatic weasel](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SjVi-OWqHzs/TAzATDo3lpI/AAAAAAAAHNE/31C5HrzwYb8/s1600/vydra-ricni-7515.jpg), shy of humans but sociable and extremely playful.


	6. Charged with Affairs

_An ambassador is an honest man sent to lie abroad for the commonwealth._

\--Henry Wotten, _Reliquiae Wottonianae_

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"Saelon is back," Hanadan reported, eyes bright in his mud-smutched face.  He was panting—having run, no doubt, from wherever he had taken up watch.  "There is a stranger with her, and he is even taller than you!"

"Are they afoot, or on horseback?"  Dírmaen let the bridle he had been mending fall onto the bench and strode to where his spear lay in rest.  There ought to be a horse ready for saddling in the byre-cave.  Taller than he?  Who could that be, save another Dúnadan . . . or an Elf?

He had warned her.  Pray she had governed her tart tongue, and provoked no anger.

"Afoot," the Dúnedain boy said.  "Though a great grey horse walks beside the stranger.  They are climbing the far slope to the tower."

The boy had probably tumbled down the nearer slope in his haste.  That would explain the liberal slathering of mud.  "Run down to the fields and tell Halpan.  There may be no cause for alarm, but we must not assume he is a friend.  Go!" Dírmaen commanded, pushing Hanadan ahead of him on his way out of the small cave where he housed.  Turning hard left, he ran along the cliff-shelf.

"What's amiss?" Airil cried from the bench beside the hall door as he passed; but the Ranger did not waste breath answering the old man.

A horse could not come down the steep slope from the tower, but must go along the cliff-top to where the scarp failed beside the small river, then out to the green lea where Halpan, Maelchon, and the cottar lads would be waiting.  It was difficult enough for him to scrabble up the faint track the children were wearing into the tussocky grass, burdened by his spear, with only one hand to clutch at what holds could be found.

As he neared the top, he slowed, catching his breath, listening.

"—a watchtower of the First Age," Saelon said conversationally.

"Aye, one of Caranthir's."  An Elf; the tone detached, even disapproving.  Peering over the lip, Dírmaen saw they were both gazing on the tumbled ring of stones.  Saelon appeared well—as well as ever she did, the relentless wind having worried wild wisps from her thick brown braid.  The Elf . . . .  Beside him, she looked a drab indeed.  He might have been one of the lords of Elrond's household, seen once on a visit to Rivendell and never forgotten.

Dírmaen came up onto the hilltop as quietly as he could, knowing it would not be quiet enough.

Sure enough, the Elf glanced over his shoulder at him, coolly taking in the spear before considering the star brooch.  A cased bow was at his back, and a long scabbard broke the graceful billow of his cloak.  " _Mae govannen_ ," he greeted him, bowing politely.  "I am Gwinnor of Lindon."

Saelon started and faced him as well, a guilty expression on her face.  Did she blush, or was her skin only chafed by the wind?  " _Mae govannen_.  Dírmaen of the Rangers."

"Gwinnor has come from Círdan," Saelon told him, before the silence could become awkward.

So it had come at last.  She was composed, but her usual assurance was lacking.  He wondered where she had found Gwinnor, and how long ago.  And what had already passed between them.  He ought to have gotten Partalan to rout out that vixen, and followed after her.  "Welcome to Habad-e-Mindon, lord."

"No lord," Gwinnor said with an easy smile.  "Merely a herald."  Turning his head, he gazed down on the lea below, fine black brows drawing together in concern.  "I hope they are not in such a taking on my account."

Glancing that way, Dírmaen saw Halpan staring up at them, fingering his swordhilt and looking torn, as Hanadan gestured excitedly; Maelchon was urging Artan and Leod to unhitch the sturdy draft horses from the plough.  The Ranger raised his spear and waved it in a signal of all-clear.

"Falathar saw the ploughed land as a grievance," Saelon murmured.

The Elf angled his head like a sated yet interested falcon, considering.  "It had more beauty as it was, but I suppose your folk must eat.  The black-bearded fellow turns a neat furrow," he allowed.  "A good eye, to cut so straight.  Is this the only field?"  He strolled towards the cliff-top as if he knew the way down well.  His mount—a long-limbed, elegant mare, richly caparisoned—was before him, keenly cropping the lime-rooted grass.

Saelon fell in beside him.  She hardly came to his shoulder.  "Yes."

"Though you have near thirty here?  Is that enough, for so many?"

Pacing behind them, Dírmaen thought Gwinnor sounded like a bailiff.  Yet some accounting must be expected.

"The yield was very good . . . and, since you have wandered here," Saelon acknowledged, "you know the land is rich.  With the bounty of the sea, it has been enough.  Maelchon—the black-bearded fellow, our husbandman—has been extending the field, meaning to sow more ground this season."

"Hm."  Having whistled to his mare, who was falling behind, Gwinnor asked, "You have stock, I assume?  Other than your few sheep, and the horses I see below."

"Between Maelchon and myself, some four-score kine, seventy sheep, and two dozen horses."

Gwinnor looked at her in surprise.  "So much was saved from Srathen Brethil?  Did you not say the _raugs_ reaved the beasts, before turning to Men?"

"Many of the beasts came with my cousin's widow, who left before things grew grim; Master Elrond's sons did not wish to be burdened with them when they escorted her to the Emyn Uial last summer.  The best of the horses were my brother's joy, and he sent them to me with his children."

"You have become a woman of property, Gaerveldis," the Elf said, with an ambiguous smile.

Sea-friend?  Dírmaen frowned.  They spoke as if he knew her of old.  But then she had lived on their lands for long years; was is it likely that none had made her acquaintance?  Perhaps she had not been so solitary here as was thought.

Saelon shook her head.  "I would rather be plain Gaerveldis again."

"And why not?" Gwinnor asked smoothly.  "You say the _raugs_ are slain, and your young kinsman wishes to resettle your scattered folk in Srathen Brethil.  Send these people home!  It is not you we object to."

Dírmaen found the glance Saelon gave the Elf oddly reassuring: that brow-knit scowl of offended pride she had leveled at him only yesterday.  "Neglect my brother's dying wish?"  Though complaisant, she was not cowed . . . nor charmed.  "I am charged to keep them until his son is of age."

Gwinnor gave a slight smile and graceful shrug of regret.  "Such devotion speaks well of you, Lady—but things would have been easier so."

They walked the rest of the way to the lea in silence.  Saelon seemed sunk deep in oppressed thought, while Gwinnor looked about him with sharp-eyed interest, as if comparing what he saw to his memories of the place.  Dírmaen stifled a sigh.  He had not been here a year, and already he could see changes for the worse: they had harvested what small timber they had more heavily than could be long borne; the herbage was over-grazed, for want of men to take the stock to the hills in summer; the trackways worn to mire, deeply rutted by the feet of Men and beasts.  Oh, it was not so shabby as many a hamlet of Men, but to Elvish eyes, the land must look ill-used, especially at this season.  If Círdan's herald had come but a month later, the new green would have covered much.

And the fields would have been sown.  Would that they had taken his counsel, and sent Maelchon and the cottars ahead to Srathen Brethil, to plough and repair such houses as they would need, instead of wasting their labor here.  Now it would all have to be done again, with beasts weary from bearing their goods over the mountains.

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When the formalities of greeting were over, including the embarrassment of Gwinnor presenting Saelon with his letter of introduction from Círdan—which neither she nor Halpan could read, though it was written in Westron as well as the noble tongue—Dírmaen packed his few belongings, that their guest might have the small cave for his chamber.

"It is good of you to make way for me like this," Gwinnor said, leaning casually against the doorframe, a silhouette against the light beyond, picked out by the glitter of his jewels.  "Thank you."

Dírmaen shrugged.  "It is nothing.  I shift into the hall during the winter gales."  The mouth of the cavern was closed off with a wall of heather-thatched wattle, but he had found it little defense against days of roaring tempest.  How Saelon had endured such storms in these quarters, he did not know.  "I hope you will be comfortable here.  At least," he gave the Elf half a smile, "you will not always be stared at."

Gwinnor laughed.  "One must expect that, when going among Men.  Have you spent much time with Elves?"

The Ranger shook his head.  "A few forays with Elladan and Elrohir, and a mission to Rivendell."

"Ah, Imladris!  No wonder you are not overawed by a little finery.  What is the Lady's experience, that she is so unsusceptible to splendor, do you know?"

He sounded somewhat nettled, or Dírmaen would have answered sharper.  "You do not?"

"No.  Why would you think . . . ."  Those bright grey eyes suddenly grew cool.  "I think we are on the verge of a misunderstanding.  Are you one who thinks her too familiar with men of other race?"

"You have heard of that?"  The harshness of his voice surprised him.

Black brows high, Gwinnor's look was perilously near distaste.  "She told me of it herself, to explain why she preferred to walk two leagues, rather than accept my invitation to ride."

"I have never said so," Dírmaen replied brusquely.  "Though others have."  A spiteful woman, in the bluntest terms, before all her people; Partalan, drunk, insinuating as much before Veylin himself, very nearly wrecking the alliance.

The eyes of Elves were piercing, it was said, and Dírmaen felt them now.  "Wise-heart, the Lady is called; but she is not that _adaneth_ who gave her heart to one of the Eldar, my own lord's brother.  Many of us have seen her from afar, as we wander these north shores, though she has never sought our company—and I would not be here if we wished for fellowship with Men.  Gaerveldis we named her in courtesy, needing some way to speak of her; but I have been told that _melethril_ would be truer."

Sea-touched; had he not seen it himself, when she came from the thundering shore with spume in her dark hair?  Dírmaen felt mortified and somehow dismayed, hearing a stranger speak of her thus.  "Your lord's brother?" he asked, grasping for safer ground.  He had not heard that Círdan had a brother.

"Aegnor."

"Was that not the brother of Finrod?"

Gwinnor sighed, hooding those keen eyes.  "Aye.  You do not know the story?"  When Dírmaen shook his head, he shrugged.  "Well, it does not make a good tale."

"Why?"

"They were wise.  He went to the marches of Ard-galen, and she became a mistress of lore, much like your Saelon."

Not for the first time, Dírmaen wondered what had driven Saelon to these shores.  "Why do you call Finrod your lord, when you follow Círdan?"

"Follow the Shipwright?"  This appeared to restore Gwinnor's good humor.  "No.  I am merely a guest of his—the interminable kind, who comes with a friend and lingers after they have gone, having no better place to go.  I make myself useful enough that he does not send me back to my lord's sister, who is indulging her husband in his taste for forest living.  It is only fair," he allowed after a pause, seeming disappointed that Dírmaen did not appreciate his wit more, "he having suffered her preference for stone."

Perhaps he would find it diverting if he knew more of what the Elf spoke, but he was no loremaster.  Finrod's sister . . . was that not the Lady of the Golden Wood?  He had never heard of a Ranger going to that land.  Tugging tight the knot on his pack, Dírmaen swung it onto his shoulder and took up his bow and quiver.  "Being neither Dwarf nor Nóm, I wish you success in your mission, Gwinnor, so I may sleep under a roof-tree once more."

That earned him a flashing grin.  "Facing Dwarves and your limpet of a wise-woman, I will gladly take whatever good wishes come my way."

"You know," Dírmaen said, pausing as he passed—so strange, to look up when speaking to another, "that the Lady has sent word of you to Veylin."

"I hoped she would," Gwinnor replied, with a satisfied quirk of his lips.  "I very much wish to see friend Veylin."

"He is your friend?"

"He is certainly not my enemy!  Did he not sell me most of the gems for this?"  Leaning down, the Elf picked up his mare's headstall: fine black leather set with stones of blue, or clear as the water that fell into the basin without.  "Since Veylin became chieftain," he explained, "we have grown used to seeing him in the autumn, as the year fades.  He would take in the Havens on his way to their southern mansions . . . until two years ago, when his kin left word of the terror in the north.  This last year, we did not even get news from the Naugrim.

"Truly—" though Gwinnor's voice was genial, there was a glint like mischief in his eye "—I will be glad to see the fox.  I feared his wounding might have ended his smithcraft, and that would be a grief indeed.  The loss of Thekk is ill enough."

Dírmaen recalled his first sight of Veylin, set about with more gems than Gwinnor wore now, fiery stones in bright gold.  A chieftain and a gemsmith . . . little wonder he had not hesitated to treat with Elrond's sons.  Yet that made it all the more strange that he should spend so much time here, far from those who could afford his work.  "Thekk who was Rekk's brother?"

Gwinnor made an amused noise.  "It seems like enough with such names, but I know no Rekk.  Is he in Veylin's following?"

"More like a fellow captain."

"That might well be so, if he is the brother of the Dwarf I knew, for though Thekk was under another chieftain, he and Veylin were close as brothers."  He considered this for a breath, then regarded Dírmaen more soberly.  "Word reached us that Dwarves and Men together slew the _raugs_ in Srathen Brethil.  Were you one of the Men?"

"I was."

"I have seen how few your numbers are.  Were there many Dwarves?  Surely so, to do what the Brethren of Imladris and your own Chieftain could not."

The Ranger gave him a lean smile, seeing what the Elf sought.  "Fifteen."

"Fifteen!"  Gwinnor frowned.  "Yet—" as if he would reassure himself "—Veylin is a chieftain, after all.  His kin would turn out to avenge him."

"They were all of his company here," Dírmaen told him, "and not all of them.  A dozen visited us less than a fortnight ago, on their return from their mansion."

"They return to Sulûnduban in winter?"

"This year.  The previous Yule they spent here, celebrating the newly finished hall."  When Gwinnor's silence settled deep, he asked, "Do the Dwarves trespass on your lands as well?"

The Elf gave a soft snort.  "That seems unlikely, hating the sea as they do.  Save for Veylin, who will dare anything if his will drives him, I wonder that they suffer coming so near as this.  Why do they do it?"

"Come here?"  Dírmaen shrugged.  "I do not understand it myself.  The Lady's ale is good, but not that good, and these folk are too poor for much trade."

"No; they would not come so far merely for a draught and a joint."

"So far?"  The Ranger could now cock his brow at the Elf.  "They are but three leagues north."

"North?" Gwinnor exclaimed.  "You are sure?"

"I have been in their hall."

It seemed he had thought—as Dírmaen himself had, at first—that the Dwarves were settled in the foothills this side of the mountains.  "I thank you for this news," the Elf said, with a grateful bow of his head.  "I hope your Lady will not be displeased with you for your candor."

"She is not my Lady.  I am a Ranger, and the Chieftain does not wish his people embroiled in quarrels between your folk and Veylin's."

"Indeed?"  Strangely, Gwinnor's expression grew droll.  "Does your Chieftain not also wish them back in their proper bounds?"

"Of course."

"Then," the Elf asked, with an insinuating smile, "why have you not already taken them there?"

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Notes

**"Charged with Affairs"** : a minor diplomatic officer sometimes bears the title chargé d'affaires, "one charged with affairs."

**Bailiff** : not an officer of the law, but one who manages a farm or estate.  In Gaelic, a farming village or township was called a _baile_ , and the factor for an estate a _bàilidh_.

**Westron** : the Common Speech.

**"The noble tongue"** : Sindarin.

**"Wise-heart, the Lady is called"** : Saelon is a variant of Saelind, the name the Elves gave to Andreth of the House of Bëor (Beren's great-aunt).  Andreth loved Aegnor, the youngest brother of Finrod Felagund.  For a fuller story—and much Elvish philosophy—see HoME X: _Morgoth's Ring_ , "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth."

**_Adaneth_** : Sindarin, "mortal woman."

**_Melethril_** : Sindarin, "(female) lover."

**Ard-galen** : the great plain in the north of Beleriand in the First Age, between Morgoth's stronghold of Angband and Dorthonion.

**Nóm** : "Wisdom," the name Men gave Finrod at their first meeting.  His more common name Felagund is often glossed as "Lord of Caves."  While Dírmaen is no loremaster, he has heard many tales, and Finrod has a special place in the history of Men by virtue of his discovery of the Edain and his aid to Beren.  By comparison, Galadriel has had little to do with Men.

**Roof-tree** : the wooden ridgebeam at the peak of a roof.

**Naugrim** : Sindarin, "the Stunted People," i.e., Dwarves.

**Joint** : a large cut of meat, usually including bone.  Gwinnor recognizes that this would be the nearest source of fresh beef or mutton for the Dwarves.


	7. Rivals in Affection

_The good old rule_  
_Sufficeth them, the simple plan_  
_That they should take, who have the power,  
_ _And they should keep who can._

\--William Wordsworth, "Rob Roy's Grave"

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" _Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo_ , Vingenáro," Veylin said civilly from the bench by the doorway, as the Noldo stepped out of Saelon's cave in his shirtsleeves.  Indeed, there were still a few stars in the west, glittering bravely in the crisp clarity of the air.

It was worth the sleepless night, to see the quick-caught start from the towering Elf.  Veylin had never succeeded in taking one by surprise in this way before, and supposed he never would again.  Yet grave threats called for bold measures: patience alone was little use against those who might outwait the rocks themselves, if their will held, and this one had sought the secrets of the Dwarves since the days when three hundred leagues lay between the tower above them and the sea.

"Well met, Veylin!" Gwinnor replied heartily in the Common Speech, a smile gracing his smooth, pliant face as he bowed.  "At your service, and your family's, as ever.  I confess," he admitted, with a look of pleased astonishment, " that I told these folk I was anxious to see you, but there was no need for you to come in such haste!"

Now that the smoke could not give him away, Veylin took out his pipe and weed.  His wits would need all the allies he could find: this was not one of those Elves whose mind had already gone West.  "If you would come all this way to find me, at this season, you must be in dire straits indeed.  Have you cracked a stone?"  This was perilous ground, but having committed to attack, it would be folly to grow coy under that calculating gaze, keen as the finest steel, and betray what he would defend through his own silence.

Gwinnor laughed, a glad sound in the grey dawn.  "Do you have some good ones on offer?"

"When have I not?"

"The _ondolaurëa_ you sold me four years ago was gravely flawed."

"And you did not see as much when you handled it?"  Striking sparks, iron on flint, he puffed his pipe to life.  "I have some smaller ones, without flaws, if they would suit."

"In truth, I would be more interested in wine-stones, should you have any the shade of a fine Anfalas red."

Was that a shot at a venture, or had he already prospected these lands?  So adept a _mírdan_ could not but see how favorable the schists hereabout were for garnets.  "Ah, you ought to have come to me in Sulûnduban this winter.  I had a score, well-matched in size and color, but Andvari got them.  He may be willing to sell."

"You would have me turn around and ride back south in hopes that he has not already?"  Gwinnor's gaze was vaguely reproachful.  "Have some mercy on my steed, if not on me."

Veylin chuffed under his breath at such dramatics, and immediately regretted it.  Their sparring might be an amusing diversion to the Noldo, but he was in earnest . . . a serious handicap.

Would that it was only garnets at stake, so he could play the ancient game with a lighter touch, but having this shrewd creature within two leagues of his opal vein both fired and froze Veylin's blood.  The halls were safe, shut and locked against his kind, even if he found the doors; yet the dykes that gave the precious stone were defended only by surging waves—and Elves were not daunted by the sea.  If this immortal huntsman of gems suspected that rich treasure was the reason why the Dwarf dared the Lord of Waters and Lindon's displeasure, he would search it out with passionate zest.

The underlying humor left that strong-faceted face, and Veylin braced himself for the start of hard bargaining, meeting Gwinnor's eyes with defiant mildness.  Now, when it was just the two of them, Dwarf and Elf, with no Men to muddy matters, he would learn how jealously Lindon meant to guard its claims.

"I was grieved to hear of Thekk's death," Gwinnor offered, with every sign of sincerity.

The Elf had wrong-footed him, revenge for his ambuscade.  "His taste in stones was always nearer yours," Veylin observed, to fill the poignant silence with something safe, resisting the urge to occupy his hands with his blackthorn.  Gwinnor had not looked at the stick since that first startled, devouring glance.  Ardently as Veylin desired advantage over this cunning rival, he would not play for pity.

"A good thing, that."

They were smiling on each other when Gwinnor glanced sharply back over his shoulder.  "Fair morning, Hanadan," he called, his smile softening, "and Guaire, is it not?"

Craning to peer past the Elf, Veylin saw two boys lurking beyond the rowan that grew between the cave and the hall door, its bare limbs providing poor cover at this season.  Having been stalked by the Dúnedain lad himself, he was not surprised when the rascal stepped forward and pertly piped, " _Mae govannen_ , Gwinnor.  Good morning, Master Veylin."  He stared at the Elf with frank curiosity, even as he drove an elbow into his companion's side.  "Greet them," Hanadan urged in low hiss.

Guaire, clearly one of Maelchon's great brood with his black thatch of hair, already sturdier than the Dúnedain child, stammered, "M-morning."

Gwinnor laughed, but kindly.  "So many visitors," he exclaimed with an air of amazement, "and day barely broken.  What can I do for you fine fellows?"

"Rian says," Hanadan declared, with a frown of skepticism, "that you knew Finrod, friend of Men."

"That is true," the Elf assured him.

"And Beren?" Guaire asked, only to look shocked by his own boldness.

"I met Beren, yes."

Veylin frowned at the admiring awe on the boys' faces.  Would that it were only the children of Men who were so enthralled by Elves.  "Hanadan," he asked, to break the spell, "would you do me a kindness?"

"Of course, Master."

"Will you carry word of my arrival to your Lady, then run up to the tower to fetch my prentice and our ponies down?"

Gwinnor looked back to him as the lads pelted off on their errand, seemingly as eager to flee the Elf as they had been to gaze on him.  "You left him on that height half the night, Veylin, chill and cheerless?"

It had not been so long.  They had not departed Gunduzahar until after the middle of the night, Saelon's message having destroyed any chance that he might sleep.  Yet if the Elf was fishing for clues to the whereabouts of his hall, he would not rise to the hook.  "Though little is left, the ruin is still well worth study."

"Belegost work, is it not?"

"You would know better than I."  That was bitter to confess.  So little survived of the craft of those great masons: Belegost itself lost, and most of their other works perished in the drowning of Beleriand.  Yet Gwinnor had dwelt in Nargothrond . . . and doubtless vexed his ancestors as he vexed him now.  Veylin counseled himself to endurance.

"It is not the one with the sable beard, is it?  I doubt he would appreciate good stonework."

"Arðri or Vestri?"  Both had been black-haired, and accompanied him to Lindon.

"Whichever one wears a cream-colored hood, and favors silver—really, not the best taste, Veylin."

Perhaps not, but less offensive than speaking ill of the dead.  "That was Arðri.  No, he was slain by a fiend."  Let Gwinnor understand what had already been paid for their presence here.  "As was Vestri."

That put a stop to the Elf's determinedly cheerful chatter and stripped the blithe mask from his face.  After a little while, with a more fitting gravity, he acknowledged, "You have done us all a great service by destroying the foul creatures."

Veylin bowed his head and looked past him.  Saelon was approaching, with the Ranger in her train.  "We could not have done it without the aid of the Men of Srathen Brethil, and Dírmaen."

"Master Veylin," Saelon exclaimed, looking uncertainly between him and Gwinnor, "welcome!"  She appeared astonished, even alarmed, but was shrewd enough not to blurt her questions out before the Elf.  Unlike Gwinnor, she was not shy of considering his game leg.  "Have you no companions this morning?"

Did she think he had walked here?  Veylin stifled a smile.  "Thyrð is tending our ponies, Lady.  I have asked Hanadan to help him.  I did not wish to disturb anyone, at so early an hour, with unexpected hooves."  Dírmaen, as befitted the chief guard of these people, was frowning on him—if a Dwarf could creep up on an Elf, what chance would the Ranger have, should it come to the test?  Yet the look Dírmaen gave Gwinnor was little easier.  There was something reassuring in that.

Side-by-side with the Noldo, Saelon's falcon gaze seemed a slight thing.  "You and Thyrð will join us to break your fast, I hope."

"Gladly, Lady."  Taking up his stick, Veylin rose as smoothly as he could, his knee having stiffened during his chill, still vigil at the Elf's threshold.  The warmth of the hall and a piping dish of pottage would be very welcome . . . and he would like to see how her folk were bearing up under Gwinnor's formidable presence.  Though protecting the opals was nearest his heart, he would also mislike losing his neighbors, especially when they were just beginning to repay the pains he had taken to help establish them.

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"He asked after you," Saelon said, "almost as soon as we met."  Turning her gaze from the plain below, where the little troop of riders cantered towards the northern headland, she considered his troubled scowl.  "He is not your friend?"

Veylin snorted.  "No."  He stood by the edge of the cliff-shelf, hands clenched on the head of his blackthorn, and watched them go: Gwinnor and Halpan, Dírmaen and Gaernath.  There were only two paths for beasts out of this cliff-backed crescent of land, and they were taking the northern ford, the straightest way to the opal vein.  He told himself it was mere chance; that Halpan, in the lead, did not know where the dykes lay—or, likely, even what a dyke was—but it did not ease his mind.  "What is the purpose of this ride they are taking?"

Saelon sighed and sat down on the slab of cliff-fall, folding her hands together in the lap of her brown woolen skirts.  "For Gwinnor to see the state of the land.  I have asked him to consider Maelchon's hope, that we might pay Círdan some manner of ground-rent."

That was a fair proposal.  She had never disputed Lindon's claim, and Veylin had not seen any sign that the Elves used the land much themselves.  Why should they not wish to get some profit from it?  "How did he receive your offer?"  Whatever Lindon required could not be traded with his folk, but so long as the rent was equitable, it was better to have things settled.  He would rather be sure of less than hope in vain for more.

And the sooner the matter was settled, the sooner Gwinnor would be away south again.

"He is turning it over in his mind.  It will depend, he says, on how we have used the land already.  They would not want indifferent or rapacious tenants."

Veylin chuffed.  He had seen many settlements of Men, often little better than the sties where they kept their pigs—when they bothered to pen the filth-loving beasts.  Saelon's folk were neat-handed and thrifty, and not merely due of poverty; such habits were not learned in a season.  Staring down at their field, the plough lying idle mid-furrow where the Elf had interrupted the work, he reflected for the first time that perhaps their Chieftain had more practical reasons for wishing them back in his fold.  Meeting them in a time of desperation, Veylin had not reckoned on what Srathen Brethil must have put in their lord's purse.  "What more need he see than this?"  His gesture took in the newly planted gardens on the cliff-shelf as well as the arable below.

The curt dismissal eased the worry on Saelon's face enough for her to favor him with a diffidently arched brow.  "The oakwood, where we have cut timber."

"The oakwood does not lie in that direction."  His folk had felled trees as well, and why should they not?  They had taken such timber as they required from the forests at the mountains' feet since their Fathers woke here, before Elves came into these lands.  If Gwinnor would not acknowledge as much, their dealings would swiftly become rancorous.

It was as well that Nordri had not begun quarrying the far cliff.

"No," Saelon agreed, "but there is also the matter of game.  We have made heavy inroads there."

This was too much.  "They lay claim to the deer and fowl, that come and go like the wind and rain?"

"You once asked what they do with the land, that we injure them," she reminded him, pulling her shawl more closely about her and growing austere.  "These are their hunting grounds and salmon streams.  Elves do not plough, no more than Dwarves; the wild beasts are their herds and flocks.  We have slain and eaten them, and our cattle take their pasturage."

"Saelon," Veylin rumbled, displeased by her tone.  It was good that he had remained standing, so he could meet those stern, sea-colored eyes levelly.  When it came to debt, she was as stiff-necked as any Dwarf . . . only recklessly prone to over-pay, to preserve her threadbare nobility.  "Do not speak so, as if you and your folk were beggars or thieves, who should be grateful for any clemency.  How much use would Lindon have gotten from these lands if the fiends had been left to multiply?  They have gotten off cheaply, and they know it."

"Do they?"

"Gwinnor allowed as much this morning," he declared, with fierce satisfaction, "so there is no need for you to grow so grim.  It is a common stratagem, in negotiations of lordship, to daunt by the appearance of wealth and an assured manner.  Those who think they cannot succeed often surrender ground that would be hard to win through honest bargaining."

She frowned at this.  "He is a High Elf, is he not?"

"High?  Aye, he is tall enough," Veylin scoffed.  "Or you might say Golodh, a Deep Elf, as their less friendly kin do.  Should I have put on my finery before I came, as I did for the sons of Elrond," he asked, fighting peevishness, "so you would value us in proper proportion?"  As if he wished to rouse Gwinnor's passion for fine stones and set him to thinking on the wealth of Dwarves.

Still, that got a short laugh from her, a welcome sign of relenting.  "Would you not have to deck your pony in jewels to match him?"

"If that is what it will take for you to esteem him no more than you should, it can be arranged.  Truly, Saelon," he said, sobering from such wry levity as he could muster, "he does not deserve such deference as you Men give him.  His experience is deep, yes, and he is subtle, very subtle, beneath that trifling manner he affects.  Like most Noldor, he plays with words as he might juggle knives.  Do not take him lightly, but do not fear him overmuch, either.  I have always found him fair-minded."

Her frown was back, but it had turned to thoughtfulness.  "Have you known him long?"

"Since I was a prentice."  After consideration—for all he knew, Gwinnor had declared as much himself—Veylin told her, "He is a gemsmith."

Seeing the change in her expression, he knew Gwinnor had not said.  "Are you at risk as well?" she murmured, her lean face hawkish.

"How often must I tell you that I can fight my own battles with Elves?" Veylin growled, though his heart was warmed by her ready concern.  "You have enough to do, defending your own interests from him.  Gwinnor and I have fenced for half a century.  It is a game with us."

She might not have the Noldo's advantages of age and birth, but she was shrewd enough to recognize a reply that was no answer.  "As you wish," she said quietly, rising.  "I am in your debt again, for your good counsel."

Cross-grained . . . .  "Saelon, do not take it so."

"Why not?" she wanted to know, soft-spoken yet implacable, ominous as the rising tide.  "If we are allies, I think I should consider my own interests touched by such a matter."

His own words.  "Did you not tell me last spring that we were allies against fiends, not Elves?"

"Yes," she admitted, with the candor of strength.  "Yet since then, whenever I am troubled by Elves, here you are."

It was true, and such an imbalance could not be stable, not with this uncompromising woman of Men.  But how could it be redressed?  Surely she saw the weakness of her position.  Or did she not regard it?  Mad; he was no young kinsman, to require rescuing.  "Will you be content," he asked, altogether uncertain of her answer, "with the promise of word, if I find they press too close?  And a favor I would ask?  It is an inconvenient one," he assured her, trying for lightness and failing.

"What is it?"  If nothing else, he had piqued her curiosity.

"Could you find room for two more guests?"

Saelon glanced from him to Thyrð, who sat a few paces off, waiting attendance with patient detachment.  "You are staying?"

"If we may."

The look she gave him, under those slim dark brows, was not unlike one of Auð's alloys of long-suffering affection.  "There will always be a place in this hall for you."

Who would have thought the gratitude of Men could be a burden?  "Thank you," he muttered gruffly, and bowed for good measure.

"You are welcome," she replied, and went back to her work without answering his question about content.

Scowling, Veylin stumped over to the slab where Thyrð sat and thumped down beside him, rubbing his aching knee as he watched Saelon take up her spade and bend to digging in the half-finished garden.  "Now," he muttered in Khuzdul, "you have truly seen the infamous Saelon of White Cliffs."

His nephew's face was suspiciously bland, though his words bordered on impudence.  "I wonder that Rekk did not slay her at their first meeting."

That warranted a warning glare, but was true enough.  Snorting, Veylin shook his head.  "I feel caught between the wave and the wall.  If only she will handle the Elf so!"

Thyrð considered him, head canted curiously.  "You think she will not?"

Veylin drew a deep breath and let it out again in slow dissatisfaction.  "I do not know.  You have seen how scrupulous she is in matters of trade . . . even in favors," he grumbled.  "She has always acknowledged Lindon's claims."  If she were trying to reconcile herself to leaving the sea, little wonder his urgings made her contrary.

The youngster gazed down at the part-ploughed field, then back at Saelon, thrusting her rough wooden spade doggedly through the turf.  "She is unaccountable indeed," he mused, "if she will plant where she does not hope to harvest."

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Notes

**_Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo_** : Quenya, "May a star shine at the hour of our meeting."  Dwarves usually learned the languages of their customers and were skillful speakers, readily adapting themselves to the style of their company ( _LotR_ , Appendix F.II), despite a marked accent.

**Noldo** : Quenya, the singular of Noldor, "the Wise."

**_Ondolaurëa_** : Quenya, "golden stone"; a word of my own invention for chrysoberyl, a yellow to greenish stone, harder than the other beryls.

**Wine-stones** : garnets.

**Anfalas** : a coastal fief of Gondor, west of Dol Amroth.

**_Mírdan_** : Sindarin, "jewel-smith."

**Arable** : land where crops are grown.

**"Elves do not plough"** : there is no evidence in Tolkien's stories to support the position that Elves are what anthropologists call agriculturalists; that is, that they practice intensive farming (for which the diagnostic artifact is the plough).  Nor is there evidence that they keep substantial herds of domesticated animals.  These subsistence practices cannot be carried out in a forest environment: one must cut the trees to make fields, and the animals would prevent the natural regeneration of woodland by eating young trees.  The descriptions Tolkien left us instead support the view that Elves were usually horticulturalists; that is, that they cultivated crops (including tree crops) in gardens or small fields, with hand tools like hoes.  As an example, consider this description of the landscape just outside Nargothrond, one of the great elf-strongholds of the First Age: "The hoes unrecked in the fields were flung, and fallen ladders in the long grass lay of the lush orchards" ( _The Children of Hurin_ , p. 270).  While horticulturalists keep some domestic animals, much of the animal protein their diet comes from hunting, and they often use other wild food resources such as nuts: an excellent reason to wander the wilder parts of the Shire in autumn, as Gildor Inglorion apparently does.

**Golodh** : a Sindarin term for a Noldo, but an unflattering one, since its root, _gûl_ , "magic, long study," has been tainted by connotations of the black arts (HoME XI: _The War of the Jewels_ , "Quendi and Eldar," Part C, p. 383–4).


	8. A Little Knowledge

_Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtile; natural philosophy, deep; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend._

\--Francis Bacon, _Essays_ , "Of Studies"

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Dírmaen was standing by the mouth of the byre-cave, giving only half an ear to Partalan's coarse, low-voiced complaints about so many uncanny folk underfoot, when his eye caught on a slight, cloaked figure moving with hasty purpose across the dooryard, making for the track.

For a few quick strides he thought it was Murdag, slipping away to tryst with whichever of the two lads she fancied today.  Last night, when Gaernath discovered that Finean's daughter had spent the hours he was out riding the bounds with Gwinnor walking with Leod, who had been left idle by the stalled ploughhorses, there had been what Airil gleefully called a collieshangie.  Most of Saelon's people had enjoyed the diversion from their anxieties, Partalan calling loudly for wagers, as if he were in a tavern; but it had been a disgraceful spectacle before their guests, having to part the youths as if they were dogs fighting over a bitch.  Well the girl might hide her face with her hood.

Then he saw the packbasket.  "Lady!" he called sharply, striding after her.

Saelon halted and turned, face set beneath the tattered edge of once-sturdy woolen.  "Yes, Dírmaen?"

He met her resentful eyes.  "You are going abroad to collect herbs?"

"As you see."

"May I accompany you?"

Now he was providing a spectacle.  Partalan was scowling at him, though he agreed Saelon ought not to wander alone; Gwinnor looked up from the children gathered about him with keen interest; and on the bench beside the hall door, Maelchon broke off his murmured conference with Veylin, while the Dwarf's stare was apt to bore a hole into him.

The silence was lengthening perilously when Gwinnor swept curly-haired little Ros off his knee and rose, smiling broadly.  "An excellent idea!  Might I come as well, Lady?  I have seen how your men harvest the creatures of this land," he observed genially, "but not how you take leaf and flower."

Saelon divided a swift, almost mistrustful glance between them, then bowed her head to the Elf.  "If you wish, Gwinnor; but—" she rallied a warning smile "—you ought to leave your gems behind you.  I am principally after bogbean, and it would be a pity to lose such lovely things in the pools."

"You would put me to work, Lady?"  Gwinnor laughed.  "I warn you, I know little of the lore of growing things.  My time was spent with Aulë, not his spouse."

"Can you be trusted to know nettles, at least?" Saelon asked.

"I think I can manage so much."  He favored her with the good-natured grin Rian found so captivating.  "And if I require assistance, Dírmaen will help me, so we do not take you from your work.  Why do you not set out, the two of you?  It will take me only a few moments to shed my jewels, and I will catch you up."

"Very well.  Dírmaen?"  Without waiting for him to speak, she went on her way.

Petty of her, to call him to heel as if he were a hound.  He spared a glance back at Veylin, as Gwinnor strove to loosen Maelchon's youngest son from his knee, but the little of the Dwarf's face that could be seen above his broad russet beard was closed, inscrutable.  At least he did not seem inclined to join them as well: a merry party they should make then.

"Where are we going?" Dírmaen asked complaisantly as they went down the rutted way, determined not to match her spleen.

"Lochan Harnas."

Towards the Dwarves' hall, almost halfway there; yet surely there was no special purpose in that, since Veylin was at Habad-e-Mindon.  Saelon showed no inclination to speak, as they crossed the lea, passing the abandoned ploughland, and Dírmaen respected her silence, reflecting instead on the awkward situation they were in.  This was Gwinnor's second morning here.  He had expected the Elf to render his decision last night, but he had not . . . and Saelon and Maelchon were shy of pressing him, lest he kill their stubborn hope of tenure.  The delay was not harmless: whether they stayed or went, these early spring days were precious—days needed to finish ploughing here, or begin breaking the fallow fields of Srathen Brethil.  Late sowing, late harvest . . . more likely to be lost to wet or frost.  Did one who walked the earth in the Elder Days not understand the tyranny of time?

Or was this a stratagem, driving Saelon to make the choice to take her people home and save Lindon the appearance of compulsion?  From the severe set of her fine-boned face and hooded eyes, as she strode onward, such thoughts occupied her mind.

At the northern edge of the lea, the river was full, fed by meltwater and rain on the hills.  They picked their way across on the tumbled stones beside the ford, and were well up the heather-clad slope beyond when Gwinnor came loping after them, hardly slowing as he crossed the slippery rocks.  His long legs made short work of the hill and, having caught up with them at the low peak, he halted and turned in a small circle, gazing appreciatively on the country round about.  "This land has such a stark beauty," he sighed, eyes as bright as a joyful youth's, "and this is the finest spot for leagues.  How did you come to settle here, Lady?  Did you know of it before you came, from some report or tale among your kindred?"

Saelon shook her head, looking out at the somber grey waves flecked with breaking whiteness.  "No.  Many of my kin are disturbed by the sea, and were glad to put their backs against the mountains when Arthedain was broken.  I merely crossed the hills and, when I reached the shore, wandered northwards.  I came here," she remembered, with a faint, fond smile, "after a week of unrelenting rain, and was so grateful for the caves that I decided to remain for a time."

"It is a wonder," Gwinnor observed, with the sympathy of one who has recently traveled far, "that such weather did not turn your thoughts and feet back towards a well-made roof."

"It was less stormy here," she said shortly, her look warning him off, and began traipsing down the hill.

What gale could have been so great that it blew a woman such as this so far from her home?  And that her kin left her here, in self-sought exile?  Following behind the others, Dírmaen tried to imagine circumstances under which he would let his own sister—even one of his cousins!—stray off into the wild.  Granted, the North Downs were nearer the Mountains of Angmar and the Ettenmoors, perilous country even for a hardened Ranger, long under the sway of evil; but what safety could a solitary woman find anywhere, save in desolate obscurity?

Perhaps Gwinnor's mind had turned down similar ways, for after they had gone some furlongs, he asked, with the air of one seeking to make polite conversation, "Does Veylin often come to visit you, Lady?"

Dírmaen glanced between their backs, raven-black hair falling over the finely woven silver-grey cloak and brown over well-worn brown, taken aback by the Elf's smooth forthrightness and wondering if Saelon feared offending him enough to give a passable answer.

"Not often," she replied, in like tone, "but he has a friend's happy knack of coming when his counsel is welcome."

"The counsel of your own men does not please you?"

Saelon's laugh had that dark, unsettling edge.  "For reasons of age or station, the few men we have left have little counsel to give.  Why do you think my brother set me over them?"

"Having suffered such grievous losses, you were not glad of the succor of your more distant kin, such as this good Ranger?"  Gwinnor cast a glance back at him.

"Dírmaen has been a boon indeed," Saelon agreed, with unexpected warmth.  "Yet—" her voice took such a judicial turn "—they were not here when our need was sorest."

And it seemed nothing could make amends for that.  Veylin had stolen such a march over the Dúnedain in her affections that there was no challenging him.

"Regrettable, to be sure," Gwinnor conceded.  "But what has that to do with the quality of their counsel at present?"

"They have but one string to their bow," was her answer.  "That we should return to Srathen Brethil, or across the Lhûn, and I should surrender my charge to some man more fit to fulfill it."

The Elf shrugged with eloquent grace.  "What is wrong with that, Lady?  It sounds like wisdom, and I know it chimes with your desire."

"If my brother had thought that was best, he would have sent them to the Chieftain by the straightest way, and spared them the crossing of the Ered Luin in Girithron."

"So," Gwinnor exclaimed gleefully, "there was one Man you could be governed by!"

Saelon snorted.  "Governed is too strong a word, or I would never have come here, let alone remained.  My brother and I debated often, and had many bitter arguments, but even if I did not always fall in with his wishes, his judgment was sound."  Her head bowed, and after a few strides, voice thick, she murmured, "I miss those disputes more than I can say."  As Gwinnor looked down on her, his fair face grave, she jerked her head up again and concluded, wry-tongued, "Though no doubt others would find such contentiousness unnatural."

"Only if they do not understand the pleasure to be found in testing one's wits against another."  Gwinnor's reply was matter-of-fact, but his expression grew puckish.  "Do you dispute with Veylin?  His wits are keen, I know."

"Argue with a Dwarf?"  Saelon regarded him dubiously.  "I do not expect Veylin to be as forgiving as a brother. Yet—" she cast a sharp glance back at Dírmaen "—neither does he expect me to be as biddable as a sister."

Gwinnor laughed.  "That would be unreasonable, Dwarves being so thrawn themselves.  One doubts their womenfolk are much better."

"They have women?" Dírmaen asked, breaking his silence.

"Assuredly they have women.  Are they not Mirröanwi?"  Gwinnor paused, considering.  "Although I cannot claim to have seen one myself, to my knowledge.  Finrod and Pengolodh, however, asserted as much, and they knew more of the Casallië than any Elf, save perhaps Eöl, who was not one to reveal secrets.  I have heard that they value their women above their hoards—which they keep close indeed—and that dwarf-women are bearded, and hard to distinguish from the men."  The Elf shook his head.  "What Aulë was thinking, when he made them, I cannot imagine."

Dírmaen cast his mind back, recalling what he could of the conversation he had had with Veylin in the ruined tower last harvest: the bit regarding the sore point of Saelon's familiarity with the Dwarf, not the part that ended with the ferrule of Veylin's stick at his throat.  There had been something very odd about the exchange, which had deepened their misunderstanding rather than settling the matter.  _The ways of your women are strange to us_ , he had said, _and your dealings with them_.  Had it been because Veylin would not speak of dwarf-women, and what dealings they considered proper?  And Rekk repeatedly tasked them with not guarding Saelon as they ought.

Bearded women?

Was the familiarity between Saelon and Veylin less disturbing, knowing they need not seek women elsewhere?  Or more so?  There had been a certain ease in believing them sexless.

When his thoughts threatened to become mired in the conundrum, Dírmaen brought his attention back to the conversation between Saelon and Gwinnor.  They had continued speaking of lore and Aulë, and now Saelon was pointing towards the shore.  "Those lines of dark stone that reach out into the sea," she asked.  "Are they walls, built in the Elder Days?  Or perhaps by our forefathers, the Númenóreans?  I have heard of a great tower that they built at the end of the Misty Mountains, near Dunland, like a fang of black rock.  There are many of these lines hereabouts: so straight, but so different in thickness and sometimes crossing.  They have long puzzled me."

"Yes, the tower of Orthanc is the work of your fathers, but these are not," Gwinnor told her.  "Only Aulë and his Maiar build such walls."  He gazed pensively on two fingers of stone, which indeed looked like low ramparts, emerging from the undulating turf to run boldly across the pale strand, straight as a rule.  "They are found where the very rock was rent by some ancient cataclysm.  The fiery blood of the earth welled up into the cracks to mend the rifts.  They do seem like walls, and so they are called dykes."

Saelon paused in her steady northward tramp, putting her head to one side as she stared at the dark stone.  "They are scars, then?  The proud flesh of the earth?"

"If you like."  The Elf was considering her now.  "You have a deep mind, Lady.  Who was your grandmother?"

"Nárwen.  Her people were from the Tower Hills.  When the depredations of Orcs came, a hundred years ago, they were raided, and her kin took refuge with us in Srathen Brethil."

Gwinnor frowned and shook his head.  "That was an ill time; and the Long Winter after."

"Her herblore stood us in good stead, then, and in the days of dearth that followed."

A terrible year, within memory of the older Dúnedain; when the snows fell deep and early, Dírmaen had seen the worry in his father's eyes.  How deadly had it been in Srathen Brethil, which lay further north than his home?  The knowledge Saelon had used to keep her people until their first harvest must have sprung from some such bitter root.

The Elf bowed to Saelon.  "Women of such wisdom, with hearts of fire, have always been the preservation of your race, Lady, from the days of Haleth and Emeldir.  It is lamentable to see the Dúnedain in grievous case once more: scattered and lost amid the desolation of what was once a fair kingdom, like gems from a broken carcanet."

Fair words; any other woman would no doubt have been excessively flattered by the bow alone.  "I am glad to hear you speak so," she replied, with a mild smile that did not reach her sea-grey eyes.  "I hope you will follow the example of your lord Finrod, who was ever a friend to Men, rather than that of Thingol."

"To what end—" Gwinnor went sharply cold, an untimely frost "—you know."

Saelon angled her head like a hunting hawk.  "For which one?"

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The three of them returned in the middle of the afternoon, the Ranger bearing Saelon's basket and the Elf walking a little apart.  From where he sat on the bench by the hall door, Veylin watched Gwinnor take leave from the Dúnedain with a formality that seemed unusual even for a Noldo, given that they had been mucking about after greenstuff together half the day.  As Saelon and Dírmaen came towards the hall, Gwinnor strode purposefully along the shelf.

Casting a deprecating glance at Saelon's sodden skirts—truly, the woman would be happier if she were a fish—Veylin rumbled, "This is not another of your weeds from the sea, is it?"  He prayed not.  Not from the shores north of here.  Why were all the Men's feet turned north these days?

"No, Master," she assured him.  "It is a weed from a lochan, very strengthening when taken in the spring."

She expected her people to need strength?  "Has Gwinnor given you an answer yet?"

"No," Dírmaen said, as Saelon shook her head.

"Where is he going?"  Veylin looked after the Elf with equal bafflement and vexation.  There was nothing that way but the slope to the tower ruin.

"To check on his mare," Dírmaen told him.  "She is pastured on the cliff-top."

"Not with your beasts?"

"She did not agree with them."

Veylin snorted, having some experience of elf-horses.  Doubtless the creature considered itself above such company.  Sheathing the knife he had been using to carve some shuttles for Rian, he picked up his stick and got to his feet.  "I had best make sure he will be down for supper.  I suspect it will be broadening even for his experience to eat whatever it is you have dredged from your pool."

"It must simmer all night," Saelon explained," and the broth is drunk."

He met her narrowed gaze and hoped she was simply piqued by his raillery.  "Will you give me leave to threaten him with the brew?  Perhaps that will spur him to finish his business with you."

"No."

"Come," he urged heartily, "it would be a good jape."  She was badly in need of a jest, even a lame one.  Otherwise she might shatter herself against the Noldo, like steel against mithril.

If anything, her lean face hardened.  "It was kind of you to speak to the sons of Elrond on my behalf, when I was in council with my people, but you must not think you are always to negotiate for me, Veylin."

He had not negotiated for her then.  Yet none of her folk, nor this Ranger, had been at that meeting, and those with little opinion of her ability might well think the credit was his.  She had learned enough of leadership to understand how important appearances were.  How was she to command the respect of her people, if she appeared to continually lean on him?  Sitting back down again, he knotted his hands around the head of his stick and gazed on her with deep misgivings.

She was turning towards the door when Dírmaen spoke.  "When conference brings no conclusion—" he spoke with hesitant, even reluctant care, frowning on Veylin with dissatisfaction "—it is sometimes as well to ask another to try on your behalf."  As they both stared at him, he added, consciously, "Truly, Lady, you have done all that could be expected—more!—to press Gwinnor for a decision.  He will not answer me, either.  We cannot remain in this uncertainty, so close to planting."  His steel-grey eyes, meeting Veylin's, were nearly as crabbed as his lady's.  "Perhaps Master Veylin, who knows him better, can find some lever to budge him."

Saelon regarded the Ranger with the same mistrust Veylin felt in his own heart.  " _You_ counsel me to turn to Veylin?"

It was extraordinary.  Did Dírmaen think the case so hopeless that there was no harm in letting him try . . . and much good, if it helped Saelon accept that she must go to Srathen Brethil?  He was an honorable man, but he neither liked nor trusted Dwarves—particularly himself, believing him too familiar with Saelon.  Or did he suspect their affairs were snarled together, and Gwinnor required some satisfaction from him as well?

"So determined a refusal to answer is in itself an answer," Dírmaen said shortly, "but you will not leave unless compelled.  You will not heed me, nor Maelchon's distress.  Something must give, Lady.  He—" flinging a hand towards Veylin "—says he is your friend.  Let him prove it.  If even he cannot get an answer, will you go?"

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Notes

**Collieshangie** : Scots, a noisy quarrel; literally, a dog fight.

**Bogbean** ( _Menyanthes trifoliata_ ): an aquatic plant of shallow water and highly prized medicinal herb; one of its uses was as a spring tonic.

**Aulë** : the Vala whose province is the material substance of the world, a smith and master of crafts; also the creator of the Dwarves.  His spouse is Yavanna, the Queen of the Earth and Giver of Fruits, whose special care is given to all growing things.

**Arthedain** : after the death of Eärendur in T.A. 861, Arnor was divided into three smaller kingdoms by his sons; Arthedain constituted the lands in the north and west, and was the only realm to preserve the line of Isildur.  It was broken by the Witch-king in T.A. 1975, just over 500 years before this story takes place.

**Thrawn** : Scots, perverse, obstinate, and intractable; also cross, sullen, or dour.  One of the names given in Sindarin to Dwarves is Dornhoth, "the thrawn folk" (HoME XI: _The War of the Jewels_ , "Quendi and Eldar," App. B, p. 388).

**Mirröanwi** : "Incarnates, Children of Eru"; language-using creatures having both _hröa_ (body) and _fëa_ (soul), i.e., Elves, Men, Hobbits, Dwarves, and Orcs (HoME X: _Morgoth's Ring_ , "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth," p. 350; HoME XI: _The War of the Jewels_ , "Quendi and Eldar," p. 405).

**Pengolodh** : one of the great Elven loremasters, born in West Beleriand in the First Age and a resident of Gondolin from its founding to its fall.  He remained in Middle-Earth until late in the Second Age, and lived for a time among the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm to further his linguistic research (HoME XI: _The War of the Jewels_ , "Quendi and Eldar," p. 396–7).  For those who feel I have slighted Legolas by leaving him out of this list of Dwarf-friends, allow me to point out that this takes place thirty years before Gimli is born.

**Casallië** : Quenya, "Dwarves" as a people; derived from Khazâd.  This is the respectful term.

**Maiar** : the lesser Ainur, the followers and vassals of the Valar.

**Nárwen** : Quenya, "fire maiden."

**Haleth** : a woman of the First Age who led her people from Thargelion to the Forest of Brethil after the death of her father and brother.  Thingol claimed Brethil, though it was outside the Girdle of Melian, and would have denied Haleth the right to settle there, but Finrod convinced him to relent.

**Emeldir** : "the Man-hearted," wife of Barahir and mother of Beren, who armed and led the women and children of the surviving folk of Bëor from Dorthonion to the Forest of Brethil when their men's resistance to the forces of Morgoth became desperate.

**Carcanet** : a highly ornamented necklace.

**"For which one?"** : for those of you who are not well versed in the lore of the Elder Days, this is a pointed rhetorical question.  Yes, Finrod died, rather horribly, for his faithful friendship to Beren, the son of Barahir.  Yet Thingol was also slain in a chamber far underground, scathing Dwarves in his pride and his greed for the united Silmaril and Nauglamír.  There is little to choose between in their respective ends; but what brought them to those ends—and what those motives accomplished—are as different as day and night.  As a descendent of Beren and Luthien, Saelon has a decided preference.

**Shuttle** : the [object used to carry weft threads](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BbUETB5MMcg/Sq2SGLLao5I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/F1qkcqpqRR8/s320/position+5,+final+one.jpg), which runs across the width of a piece of fabric, through the warp (lengthwise) threads in weaving.


	9. Ebb-Tide

_Practical people, I have been told,_  
_Weary of the sea for his waves go up and down_  
_Endlessly to no visible purpose;_  
_Tire of the tides, for the tides are tireless, the tides_  
_Are well-content with their own march-tune  
_ _And nothing accomplished is no matter to them._

\--Robinson Jeffers, "Practical People"

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"And if I can," Veylin countered, glaring up at Dírmaen, "and they are granted tenure, will you leave off your objections to them dwelling here?"  The Man would get no one-sided bargain from him: if he and Saelon must hazard something, so must the Ranger.

"I have not said yes!" Saelon protested.

"Yes," Dírmaen agreed, thrusting out his hand.

They were about to clap hands on the bargain when Saelon smacked Dírmaen's away.  "I have not," she repeated furiously, glowering at them both, "said yes."

Veylin hesitated, drawing his hand partway back.  "Have you no faith in me, Saelon?"

"I will not give him—" she stabbed a finger at the Ranger "—and Partalan the satisfaction of proving that I cannot manage, and must turn to some man or other, even if of other race."

Dírmaen looked both startled and incensed at being named in one breath with the swordsman.  "I—and Partalan?"  Veylin had seen that he liked the Dunlending little better than Dwarves.

"Who else objects to my actions?  Not Halpan.  Not Maelchon.  Not the men of Srathen Brethil," she drove her point home savagely.  "And you," she turned to Veylin, "I am not sure I wish to be a pawn—I and my people!—in some game you have played with this Elf for longer than most of us have lived."

"You think I would treat you—and them—so?"

She gave a strangled sound of rage.  "No—oh," and her eyes filled with tears, "I wish none of you had ever come here!  Why could you not leave me in peace!"

As she whirled to flee, Veylin lurched off the bench, stifling his knee's objection to a harsh grunt, and blocked her way with his stick.  "Do you wish him to think you weak," he demanded, jerking his head towards the Ranger, "when it is only that the Elf has driven you to distraction?"

"I do not think she is weak," Dírmaen snapped.  "Nor that she cannot manage."

"Are you not supposed to be a quiet Man?" Veylin growled.  "Give her a little of the peace she wishes!"  Turning back to Saelon he said, as evenly as he could, "Come; sit down, Lady.  If you wish to set about Gwinnor yourself, you have my blessings.  But you cannot begin in a mood such as this.  You are like good steel that has been hammered too long."

"I—"  Saelon looked between them, the louring Ranger and himself, and dragged her sleeve across her face.  "I have said all I dare . . . and more than was wise," she confessed bleakly.  "He is too much for me."

"Well," Veylin rumbled, grieved by her mortification but glad she was able to recognize when she was truly overmatched, "now I have your measure.  Something more than three armed Dwarves, and something less than one born in the Blessed Realm."

She grimaced at him.  "I did not do well against the Dwarves, either."

"Nor badly, or we would not be in this predicament."  She did not sit, but at least her anger had broken.  "You must choose, it seems, between having your pride in Srathen Brethil, or the chance of quarrelsome menfolk here."

"Chance," she scoffed, under her breath.

"Chance of you all being quarrelsome here, where at least you can quench your vexation in the sea."

Still dour, Saelon sighed.  "You have a dreadfully plain way of putting things, Veylin."

"One must, if one is to keep peace between Dwarves."

Looking to Dírmaen, she asked, "Did you suggest that as honest counsel, or in spite?"

The Ranger's hawkish face grew austere with reproach.  "You think that I bear Master Veylin so much ill-will?"

Saelon considered him gravely, dark brows drawn together.  "I do not know."

That struck him dumb long enough that Veylin began to fear he had retreated into silence, as he did when stymied.  "I hope all my counsels are honest," Dírmaen finally murmured.

"Then I will take you at your word."  Her gazed lingered on the Man as she said, "I will be grateful for any effort you wish to make, Veylin, whatever the result.  You do not need to prove your friendship to me."

Veylin snorted—the thought did not deserve words to dismiss it—and joined her in eyeing the Ranger.  "Like most Men who wear the star-brooch, Dírmaen takes a deal of convincing," he acknowledged.  He could not, in justice, quarrel with that; yet he wished the Dúnadan had more of Saelon's penetration.  "I have told him before that I desire good neighbors.  If he requires more proof than he has already seen, I will strive to content him."

Brave words, he had time to reflect, his game leg making the climb to the tower laborious.  Though between Saelon's distress and the Ranger's abiding mistrust, his heart burned hot enough that he did not repent them.  Some heat would not go amiss, for he had retreated into cold caution with the Noldo, concerned that his first bold stroke had only revealed how much he feared to lose.  He must keep his anger firmly in check, however, despite this aggravation to his knee; he did not wish a breach with Lindon . . . nor such a reliable buyer of stones.  Well, he would undoubtedly have ample time to cool his heels and his temper as the Elf petted and prattled to his beast.

Glancing up from the treacherous footing of the slope to see how much further he must climb, Veylin found Gwinnor standing at the top, only a half-dozen paces away, gazing down on him.  That solemn face—had there been a touch of pity there?—curved into an inquisitive smile.  "Have you come to seek inspiration from the work of your ancestors, Veylin?"

The jaunty Elvish impudence was more grating than his knee.  "No," he began testily, then caught himself and moderated his tone.  "No, I wish to speak with you, Gwinnor."

"Of course!  Shall we go down," he waved his hand back the way Veylin had just come, "where we can sit in greater comfort, with a cup to hand?"

Aye, he might well have a thirst, having just returned from tramping with the Dúnedain, but Veylin was not about to turn around and stump back down that slope just yet, not until he had rested his leg.  "No, let us sit up here, where we will not be pestered by the children."  Putting his head down, he concentrated on climbing those last few paces as creditably as he could, setting his teeth on the pain.

Gwinnor fell back and began casting about for a seat that pleased him.  "You find them a trial?"  Veylin heard the smile in his melodious voice.  "I think they are charming."

"Really?" Veylin muttered, as he finally reached the top, then, more civilly, "I am glad you find them so."  Let the Elf be fastidious; he sat on the first decent stone that offered, and fixed Gwinnor with his gaze.  "I had thought otherwise, seeing how you are harrowing their elders."

"Harrowing?"  Gwinnor, who had been contemplating one of the broader stones, looked around at him, black brows arched high and the corner of his supple mouth quirking.  "In what way?"

"Killing their hope with indifference.  If you mean to refuse them, it would be kinder to say so.  They will be hard-pressed to plough enough land in Srathen Brethil to keep themselves, if they do not start soon."

"Then let them go and begin," Gwinnor replied with a careless shrug.  "They know they should."

Veylin scowled up at the towering Elf.  Subtlety, even a certain underhandedness, he had expected, but not such frank heartlessness.  "So you are proof against charm, and these smiles you give them are false."

Gwinnor gave a soft snort.  "Puppies are endearing creatures, but I do not wish to crowd my house with hounds.  One Man, even a few, would be tolerable, but surely you have seen how quickly they multiply, Veylin.  Two of their women are carrying now, and if that fetching black-haired lass will but make up her mind who the sire is to be, she will be in like state ere long.  Oh, it is a glad thing to see," he admitted, folding himself down onto his chosen seat, "but we do not wish to be overrun by Men."

As well that they had not gone down; such blunt talk could only have offended their hosts.  "Their numbers can increase swiftly," Veylin allowed, wondering if the Elf had divined that his own hopes were pinned on the fact, "though they often fall even faster.  Were the lands east not thickly peopled, when there were still kings?  Men are frail creatures, and the world grows no safer."  Seeing no change on that fair mask of a face, he declared, "These folk of Srathen Brethil long lived on our lands, north of the Little Lhûn, and we never found them any trouble."

"Then you may have them back.  You desire to trade with them, to save yourselves the trouble of raising your own food.  We do not, and they take many of the beasts we would eat ourselves."

"Many?" Veylin questioned, dubious.  "The fowl and fish are innumerable."

"Waterfowl, yes.  Yet the birds of the moor are much diminished, and there are far fewer deer than I remember."

Veylin shook his head.  "You have been told that they were without corn most of last year?"

"That does not explain their inroads on the oakwood—especially," Gwinnor said, and now he seemed genuinely aggrieved, "since they did not need the timber to build, you having provided them with a roof.  Men do not eat wood.  There are few enough trees this far north, and it is a grief to lose any."

The subject could not be avoided any longer.  Veylin prayed he would not regret this.  "Do you think my folk have used none?"

The Noldo's eyes, the color of blued steel, cooled as he calculated, lips slightly pursed.  "If the Men have not been wasteful, your following must be larger than I thought.  I suppose you have been making free with the beasts on our lands as well?"

"Your lands?  We are north of the Little Lhûn."

Gwinnor dismissed his counterclaim with an impatient gesture.  "I grant that your kin have dwelt in the Ered Lindon since before I crossed the Ice.  But you are not settled in the mountains, my friend.  This has been Elvish land since your forefathers built this tower for Caranthir."

"How do you know where I dwell?" Veylin challenged, even as his heart clenched.

"Am I blind?" Gwinnor scoffed.  "You have been here long enough to start beating bridleways through the heather, and the Men keep no ponies.  However do you keep Dwarves so near the sea, Veylin?  Have you found treasure in the black heart of that flat-topped hill?"

The awful silence lasted only a few heartbeats before he added with dry courtesy, "Pardon me, Veylin.  I ought to know by now that asking such questions of Dwarves is vain."

Better he should think it there, than where it truly lay.  Stony-faced, Veylin prayed he had not given the smallest sign of relief, which might reveal his error to the Elf.  "Now that the fiends are slain," he said, voice brittle with restraint, "I will come to Mithlond as usual in the autumn, and discuss the matter with Círdan himself."

"We will be glad to see you and your work there again," Gwinnor assured him, with warmth as well as courtesy.  "I will tell Círdan to expect you."

Veylin bowed his head slightly in stiff-necked acknowledgement, suspicious of the encouragement after such a sally.  If the Elves insisted on some accounting from him, he would give it—but to the Shipwright himself, who cared little for the bounty of Mahal, and not to this foster-brother, whose love for the Maker's brightest gifts was still unsated after three ages of the world.

For a time they sat there, eyeing each other, until Gwinnor gave a restive sigh.  "Since you want some decision on their behalf, will you at least tell me why you wish these Men for neighbors?"

That had never been a secret.  "They are honest and stout-hearted."  Simple folk, too, which he was inclined to consider a virtue at present.

Gwinnor bowed his head.  "Praise indeed, from a Casar such as you.  Yet surely, if you have a goodly company, you have no need of their slight strength."

"Few as they are, our vengeance on the fiends would have been more costly without them," Veylin asserted.  "The fell creatures have taught me that complacence is unwise.  Erebor had no notion of a dragon falling on their heads, but the proud Longbeards have had to seek refuge with us here, far from the mansions of their fathers.  Where would we turn, should calamity befall?"  He clenched his hands on his blackthorn stick; such thoughts had weighed on him since his wounding.  "One cannot have too many friends in perilous times.  Even one person of good will can make the difference between life and death."  Saelon spoke of sowing and harvest; he would hoard what treasure fell his way.

Gwinnor let his gaze fall to Veylin's stiff, outstretched leg.  "Certainly you found that to be the case.  Such a strange friendship," he mused.  "I marvel that you did not mortally offend each other before the first day was out.  Yet," he observed, with a suggestion of cynicism, "whether by affinity or design, you and the Lady harp on the same theme.  Did you know she had the cheek to imply I was more of Thingol's mind than Finrod's, in dealing with folk of other race?"

Veylin's eyebrows shot up in mingled delight and alarm.  "Cheek?" he exclaimed, wondering just what Saelon had said.  "That is a feeble word for audacity such as hers."  Then, remembering how shrewd a judge of character the Dúnadaneth was, his brows fell again, russet thickets shading his narrowed eyes.  "Are you?"

The Elf stared at him.  "You ought to know better than she.  How long have we known each other, Veylin?"  When he did not answer, Gwinnor grew solemn.  "You think so highly of her judgment?"

"I do."  Dwarves long had profit from their dealings with Thingol, before that last ill-fated bargain; profit, but no friendship.

"Because she finds your company congenial?"

Veylin chuffed.  "Do you think me susceptible to mere regard?  Given the circumstances of our first acquaintance, yes.  As you said, it is a wonder it did not come to a tragic end.  It would have, save for her courage and forbearance.  We do not," he rumbled, "find fair-minded understanding among other folk so often that we misprize it  And it is not limited to Dwarves.  She freely admits your rights and grievances, and argues them against herself."

"Then why is she still here?" Gwinnor demanded.

"Do your folk not call her Gaerveldis?  Because she cannot bear to part from the sea!"

The Elf lapsed back into jaded indifference.  "Yes, that she has a taste for it, we know.  But her infatuation is no reason we should suffer so many unwanted guests.  Let her go and do her duty by her people," he concluded.  "The sea will still be here when she is done."

"Infatuation?"  Veylin rejected the derisive word with a snort.  "Does a sensible person sit on a rock amid the sea in Girithron for infatuation?"

"Why else would a person of any sense do such a thing?"

Deep the Noldo might be, but he did not fathom this.  "Because it speaks to her."

"Oh," Gwinnor sighed, raising supercilious brows, "she fancies herself one who hears the Ulumúri, does she?"

Words would not do.  The Elf was too apt to twist them to suit himself.  "Go," Veylin growled, "and ask her for the token I gave her on the shore in Girithron."

"You, on the shore?"  That roused his interest.  Grinning, he asked, "Whatever took you there?"

"Go and see."

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**Blessed Realm** : Aman, where the Valar dwell.

**Quench** : to cool suddenly by immersion in liquid; an ironworking process that produces the hardness (and therefore sharpness) desirable in a good blade.

**Star-brooch** : the "brooch of silver shaped like a rayed star" ( _LotR_ , "The Passing of the Grey Company") worn by Rangers.

**Ered Lindon** : the name the Noldor gave to the Ered Luin or Blue Mountains.

**The Ice** : the Helcaraxë, a narrow, frozen strait in the far north between Aman and Middle-Earth in the First Age.  The Noldor who were left behind when Fëanor burned the ships taken at Alqualondë crossed here with many losses.

**Casar** : Quenya, "Dwarf"; derived from Khazâd.  This is the respectful term.

**Ulumúri** : the horns of Ulmo, wrought of white shell.


	10. Settlement

_The torch answered: Have I kindled a morning?_  
_For again, this old world's end is the gate of a world fire-new, of your wild future, wild as a hawk's dream,_  
_Ways hung on nothing, like stars, feet shaking earth off; that long way  
_ _Was a labor in a dream, will you wake now?_

\--Robinson Jeffers, "The Torch-bearers' Race"

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

"You did not!" Halpan exclaimed, then remembered himself and cast a furtive glance around the dooryard before hissing, "How could you?"

Dírmaen bristled at the younger man's reproach, as he had not under Saelon and Veylin's mistrustful eyes.  "He says he is on good terms with Lindon, and that he wishes you for neighbors.  Why should you not ask him to speak on your behalf?  Besides," he declared shortly, "he wished to do so."

That only deepened the cleft that had settled between Halpan's brows since yesterday.  "I do not like this," he muttered.  "None of it.  Do you know why Gwinnor will not give us some decision?" he pressed.  "If he says we must go, Saelon will go.  We will never see him again—let her resent him."

Rather than Veylin, should he fail to win her heart's desire?  "No, I do not understand why he has not simply ordered you off.  Yet Elves are loathe to command Men."  Dírmaen had always found that, and their strangely ambiguous counsel, singular, given their great store of wisdom . . . .  Could it be that they knew the resentment of Men too well?  A woman such as Saelon, telling the old tales by the hearth, might embitter generations.

Yet how would this ungenerous circumspection breed better feeling?

Halpan was opening his mouth to make some reply when Dírmaen saw Gwinnor coming down from the tower with long strides, and made a small, sharp gesture for silence.  Even the Elf's slipping slides were poised, as if deliberate, to hasten his descent.  He was alone; the Dwarf was not with him.  Not that Veylin could have kept pace, even if his leg had been sound.

Turning with a frown to see what warranted such abruptness, Halpan drew a short breath at the sight of Gwinnor strolling along the cliff-shelf towards them and schooled his face to a proper expression for a host.

"Friends," the Elf greeted them, with one of his warmly courteous smiles, "do you know where I might find the Lady?"

Had Veylin won his approval?  Halpan nodded westwards, eyeing him with uneasy curiosity.  "On the shore."

"Indeed?"  Gwinnor gazed down towards the dunes that hid the strand, very thoughtfully.

That did not look so favorable.  "Where is Master Veylin?" Dírmaen asked.

"Hhm?  Oh, up at the tower still," Gwinnor replied, flashing out a grin that made him look no older than Gaernath, "in a pet.  He will be down in his own time, I am sure.  Do either of you know," he asked, "of a token the good Dwarf has given the Lady?  In Girithron?  On the shore, as it happens."

"The shore?" Dírmaen echoed, incredulity flattening a pang of gall.  Dwarves gave nothing without return.  "Veylin does not go to the strand.  No Dwarf does."

"It must have been when they were delving the hall," Halpan mused.  "They were not here last Girithron.  But I know of nothing save counsel that she has ever had from him, except the hall, though that can hardly be called a token."  His mouth crooked in long-suffering fondness.  "Saelon is more apt to give than to take."

"What of her dwarf-knife?"

Halpan shook his head.  "That he gave her before even I came, in return for one she ruined burning _raug_ -poison from his shoulder."  Looking at Gwinnor, he asked hesitantly, "Have you quarreled with Veylin?"

"We do not," the Elf replied lightly, "see eye to eye.  He told me to ask for this token.  Apparently it is to put me in his way of thinking."

Dírmaen frowned in bafflement.  He could not imagine any thing that would speak more forcefully than Saelon and Veylin.  "Perhaps Rian might know?  Or—here, Hanadan," he called.  There the boy was over by the geese, barely far enough off for politeness, watching the Elf with lively attention.  "Run down to the strand and tell the Lady she is wanted."

Having come closer, Hanadan glanced towards the shore, then offered, "I know what he gave her."

There was something uncertain in his voice.  Surely he was not trying to get out of the errand?  It was a far step, but he ran it several times each day in any case; and Saelon would not scathe the boy, as she might others, for calling her back so soon after she had reached her refuge.

"How would you know?" Halpan chaffed him, reaching out to good-naturedly scruff his already untidy hair.

"No one else would tell him where to find her," Hanadan asserted, pulling away from the indignity.  "Veylin said it was a secret."

Gwinnor hunkered down and looked the child in the face.  "Master Veylin told me of it himself," he assured him, then, in so good an imitation of the Dwarf's harsh grumble that even Dírmaen could not keep back a smile, "'Go and ask her for the token I gave her on the shore in Girithron.'  It would be a shame to fetch her back for so small a thing, if you could tell what it is."

Hanadan giggled, then looked to Halpan and then Dírmaen.  Seeing no disapproval, he ducked his head and kicked a tuft of grass with his muddy toes.  "It is a rock."

"There are many kinds of rock," Gwinnor told him.  "Can you describe it for me?"

"It is this kind of rock."  Hanadan pointed at the cliff.  "Would you like to see?"

"Please, if you know where to find it!"

As the boy pelted off towards the hall door, Gwinnor stood and cast a droll look on Dírmaen.  "You need not fear that her favor has been bought by some great gift.  Unless, of course, you consider the hall.  This stone has little value save for building and sculpture."

Halpan frowned at Dírmaen with exasperation.  "How many times must I tell you, Veylin has no improper influence on Saelon?"

Under the Elf's daunting eye, Dírmaen merely gave a wan smile of acknowledgment.  His judgment had been humbled on that count; his judgment . . . and other things.  The wrangle earlier had plainly shown that Saelon did not fall in readily with Veylin's wishes; indeed, he seemed chary of pressing her, at least when she was in so fell a mood.  Yet the Dwarf's brusque bluntness had given her some relief in her distress, where his effort at complaisance had failed.

"Will she admit any influence?"  Gwinnor grinned at Halpan.  "I would pity you for having such self-willed kinswomen, save that they seem to serve you so well."

Halpan laughed wryly.  "Few of our women are mild, it is true, but my cousin—as you know—has never feared to go her own way.  She will listen to counsel, but that does not mean she will heed it."

"Not even that of the sea?"

The young Dúnadan stared at him, seemingly struck dumb.  Dírmaen suddenly remembered him on his horse over his brother's grave in Srathen Brethil, crying out against Saelon's wisdom, cold and pitiless as the waves.

"That is how she explains herself, is it not?" Gwinnor encouraged.

"Begging your pardon—"  Maelchon, who had been sitting on the bench by the door, fiddling about with a leaky pail and pretending not to attend to them, rose and came over, his usual bluff heartiness subdued by his awe of the Elf  "—I should not speak, I am sure, but I could not help overhearing . . . and of course the lad," he glanced at Halpan with apologetic pity, "is loathe to speak.  You will not, I hope, hold the Lady's sea-madness against her—or us."  He smiled like an anxious hound.  "She can not help herself, poor woman."

Gwinnor raked his gaze over the three of them: the big, half-bowing husbandman; Halpan, eyes cast down in shame; even Dírmaen could not bear that piercing glance.  "Sea-madness?"

"Not," Maelchon hastened to assure him, "that she is not entirely sensible otherwise—"

"You think she is mad?" Gwinnor exclaimed, outraged.  "Ai, little wonder that her brother set her to rule, if your wits are so lacking!  Or that she prefers the company of Dwarves!"  Hanadan, trotting from the hall, stopped in his tracks at the Elf's scathing tone, clutching whatever was in his hand more tightly.  "Come, child," Gwinnor urged, voice a shade too tight for kindness, "help us settle this moil.  Show us what can convince a Dwarf—" the emphasis he laid on the word sharpened the reproach "—that a fondness for the sea is sound judgment."

Hanadan came, reluctant now, but slowly opened his small fist around a rough chunk of pale stone . . . revealing something silver-grey embedded within.  Dírmaen drew closer, to see it more clearly.  "What is it?"  He could not puzzle out the shape.

Gwinnor started to reach for it, then halted, and quietly asked the boy, "May I?"  After a moment, the boy nodded, though mistrustfully, and the Elf took it, turning it delicately in his long fingers.

"Is it—a sea shell?" Halpan murmured, leaning in to stare.

"In stone?"  Dírmaen frowned doubtfully.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Saelon trudged through the dunes with her basket of winkles and dulse, and set off across the machair, heart still heavy but more nearly resigned.  Whatever would come, she could bear it.  Foolish, even silly, to grieve this way: no one was dying.  At worst, she must go and see Srathen Brethil in spring, tender green on the birches instead of ice, and listen to the swift chatter of the burn over the ford near the hall.  Staring at the early flowers peeping through the turf, she set her mind to the herbs she would not find, or rarely, across the mountains: linarich and carrageen, centaury and carran, lovage and stonecrop, henbane—

"Lady."

She started half out of her skin at Gwinnor's voice, and checked herself hard, ashamed to have been so lost in thought that she had not seen a great gaudy Elf coming across the grass.  "Your pardon, Gwinnor," she said, forcing her voice to calmness and meeting his solemn blue-grey gaze with as much dignity as she could recover.  "My mind was elsewhere.  What brings you here?"

As if she could not guess.  If the verdict had been favorable, there was no reason he could not have waited until she reached the hall, and given it before all her people.

Stretching out his hand, he opened it to reveal a broken piece of cliff-stone . . . with a shadow-shape trapped within.  "What is this?"

How had he come by that?  "A curiosity Veylin found as they delved the hall, and gave to me," she replied coolly, reining in resentment that he should handle her things without leave.  What did it matter?  She had told Veylin that if she must leave the sea, such reminders would be bitter things.  "Surely you know better than I."

Gwinnor looked down on her with dissatisfaction.  "Yes, I have seen such things before.  Yet where they are found, there are usually many, not one alone, and I have seen no others in your cliffs.  This is more than a curiosity—or so Veylin thinks."

Saelon shrugged.  "I would not know."

"For your sake, Lady," Gwinnor sighed, irritated, "I hope you have not picked up the tiresome Dwarvish habit of reticence.  It needs strength to play that to advantage, and you are standing on sand."  He fixed his keen stare on her.  "Does the sea speak to you?"

The dunes muted the comforting rumble of the breaking surf to a low mutter, barely to be heard above the wind.  "Do I hear voices?  No."

"I am not one of your clod-pated Firiath, who calls anything he does not understand lunacy," the Elf said shortly.  "Sea-madness!  Why do you suffer such contempt?  Send them back to Srathen Brethil, where they belong!"

"Because they are all I have left of my kin, and I understand it no better than they!" she snapped.  "How many times must I tell you, I will not relinquish my charge!"

"Even if it parts you from the sea?"

"Even so."

Gwinnor stared at the ancient, stone-cased shell in his hand.  "I wish I might lay this before Círdan," he murmured, discontented.  "My own understanding of the sea is not profound.  Yet there is not time to consult him before you must plant—and," he added swiftly, as if to forestall her, "no good can come from deferring this further."

Saelon shifted the heavy basket to her other hip, wearied by the contention more than the day's strenuous work.  "Then say what you would have us do."  Yes; they must have some decision so they could carry on with their lives, the Dwarves as well as her folk: plowing and planting, bargaining and building . . . .  "If we must go, say so, and we will go."

"And if I do not, you will remain, though you know we do not want you."

Closing her eyes, Saelon said flatly, "Tell me I must go."  If he thought her bond with the sea no fancy, how could he expect her to sever it?

Silence.  Which dragged on.  Just as she was about to open her eyes again, the basket was lifted from her grasp.  "You," Gwinnor declared, tucking the basket into the crook of his arm as she gave him a startled glare, "are either the shrewdest woman of Men I have ever known, or so nobly disinterested that your men might be forgiven for thinking you mad."

She set a fist on her empty hip.  "Are we to go or not?"

"Is this how you got that lordly hall out of Veylin?" the Elf reflected, turning and walking slowly back across the machair.  "By not asking for it?"

"Of course I did not ask for it."  Was he toying with her still?  Furious, she strode after him.  "How could I ask for so great a thing?"

Gwinnor shook his head, as if in disbelief.  "He owed you his life, Lady.  You might have asked for his weight in gold thrice over, and he would have paid it."

"I did not save his life in hope of riches!"

She had caught up with him, and he looked at her sidelong.  "No.  And so you have gained what cannot be bought: the friendship of a great-hearted Dwarf.  Who will undoubtedly," recovering his lightness of tone, "be wroth with me if I send you further off, and spoil whatever calculations he has made."  Saelon halted, alarmed, but he shook his head as if in warning and kept walking.  "Now, since I do not wish to be reproached by Finrod when I see him, and he—" Gwinnor glanced into her basket and snorted in soft scorn "—winkles the story out of me, let us make some calculations as well.  What did you think you would give in rent?"

Though she had just caught up with him, she stopped again.  "We might stay?"

He waited for her this time.  "If you can make it worth Lindon's while, as well as Veylin's."

"You have seen all we have," Saelon said, trying to rally her stunned wits, afraid to believe him.  He seemed changeable as the weather: cheering sun one moment, threatening clouds the next.  "What would Lindon value?"

"Let us start with some conditions."  The levity was gone.  "Between your folk and the Dwarves, the land has been hard-used.  No more than three-score Men are to house between the mountains and the sea."

That was more than twice their present numbers.  Even if they prospered, it would be a generation before they had so many, and by then Halmir ought to have taken his father's place as lord of Srathen Brethil.  "Very well."

"Each year, you are to take no more than a score of deer, and may fell only a single tree from the oakwood."

"One large tree?  What of the smaller ones we use for hurdles and baskets?"

"Yes, one large tree," Gwinnor agreed.  "But you would be wise to coppice those that will bear it well—hazel and alder, osier and sallow—for your smaller timber."

Saelon bowed her head in thanks for the advice.  That was less harsh than it seemed, there being so plentiful a supply of driftwood; and they did not require wood for fuel.  "We can manage that without hardship."

"And you must guard these lands against evil, whether the servants of the Enemy or fell creatures such as the _raugs_ or outlaws of your own kind."

"Of course!"

Gwinnor smiled at her prompt indignation.  "I expect the Dwarves will remain useful allies in that regard until you have more men of your own.  Little that troubles them roams long in the mountains."

Saelon smiled back, glad he recognized their worth but still uneasy on their account.  "Since you know the Dwarves use the land as well, might I ask what agreement you have with them?  I do not wish to quarrel with Veylin because my folk are being held accountable for what his have taken."  She thought of Nordri and his wish to quarry from the cliff above.

"It is . . . complicated," Gwinnor told her, with a mild frown.  "The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains have certain rights to wood and stone in the lands around their own that go back to the Elder Days, but Veylin appears to be pushing the bounds of those customs.  He has promised, however, to come to Círdan this autumn and content him.  I do not think," he said reassuringly, "that there will be grounds for confusion, unless your folk take up mining."

Nodding, Saelon began walking again.  "Then what would you have for the right to plow and herd, hunt and fish and fowl, gather and build?"

The Elf's fair face grew cool as he considered, but after several strides he noted her anxiety and smiled again.  "Do not fear, Lady; unlike Dwarves, we will not take the food from your mouths.  What do you say to a half dozen hides from your kine, as many calfskins suitable for vellum, three woolfells, the fleeces from dozen wethers, the hides from half the deer you take, the hide of a boar with its tusks, two wolfskins, a dozen fox pelts, four woolsacks of down, and a tithe of all the herbs you gather that can be used to treat wounds or dye cloth?"

There were two fox pelts stretched to cure already; so many hides and so much wool from their stock would be a sore loss for the next year or two, until they built the herds up somewhat, especially since—she gazed mournfully at the tattered hem of her skirts—they were much in need of cloth and leather themselves.  "I will need to take counsel with my menfolk, who provide most of what you ask, but I believe we can pay that.  Would Círdan send someone to collect it, or would we need to bring it to the Havens?"

Gwinnor thought about this for several strides.  "Let us say you will bring it to Mithlond by _yáviérë_ each year.  If that proves unsatisfactory, we can make other arrangements."

"Is the tenure to be at Círdan's pleasure, or for a set term?"

"If you find a way to offend Círdan, Lady," Gwinnor informed her forbiddingly, "you will not wish to be anywhere near the sea."  At her look of trepidation, he laughed.  "Never fear; the Shipwright is not easily offended, save by abusing one of his beloved ships.  Do you sail?"

Saelon shook her head, eyeing him reproachfully.  He would jest of such a thing?  "I have never been on a boat."  She had never even seen one before last spring, when Falathar came.

"Ah, then you will have to come to Mithlond yourself," he said, all warm courtesy once more.  "You would like sailing, I think."

Frivolous creature.  They had reached the foot of the track, and she had seen that most of the men were gathered near the top.  The picture she and the Elf had given, as they walked back, could not have settled anyone's mind.  "What proofs will there be of our agreement, Gwinnor, once I have secured my people's approval?  I suppose Veylin and Dírmaen can witness it."

"Indeed," he agreed.  "We will get friend Veylin to write it all down, so you have no doubts regarding the faithfulness of the account: one copy for you, and one for me to take back to Círdan."  Gwinnor paused, and gazed down on the stone-set shell in his hand.  "Lady, would you allow me to take this to Círdan as well?"

She frowned.  What would the Lord of the Havens make of the battered, misshapen ghost of a shell in a rough lump of rock?  "If you think so trifling a thing would interest him, very well.  But please, take care of it and see that it finds its way safe home.  I have a fondness for it, on account of the giver."

Gwinnor bowed.  "If you do not come to Mithlond yourself, Lady, I will give it into Veylin's hands.  He knows well how to carry such gems in safety."

"Tell me, Gwinnor," Saelon asked dryly, as they passed the rock at the turning, "how am I to take you seriously, when you sometimes say such errant nonsense?"

"Nonsense?" he protested, with a wounded expression.  "Please, do not tell me that your rustic folk and Dwarves have spoilt your appreciation for a poetic turn of phrase, Lady.  Surely Veylin has taught you the importance of recognizing gems in the rough."

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Notes

**Carran** (scurvy grass; _Cochlearia officinalis_ ): a shore plant rich in vitamin C, also used medicinally.

**Lovage** ( _Ligusticum scoticum_ ): celery-like potherb and salad plant.

**Henbane** ( _Hyoscyamus niger_ ): a member of the nightshade family with narcotic and sedative properties; a potent and dangerous medicinal plant.

**Firiath** : Sindarin, "Mortals, Men."

**Coppice** : cutting trees that regenerate quickly in such a way that they produce large numbers of suckers or shoots, which can be harvested for wood without killing the root system.

**Sallow** ( _Salix_ sp.): the shrubbier types of willow, for instance, the pussy-willow; these were also traditionally used for basketry.

**Vellum** : the skin of a calf, lamb, or kid, prepared as a surface for writing; vellum is finer than parchment, which could be made of the split hides of adult animals.  It was also used for the book covers.

**_Yáviérë_** : Quenya, "Autumn-day"; the extra day inserted between September and October in the Steward's Reckoning.  This is very close to Michaelmas (September 29th), a traditional quarter-day, when rents were due.


	11. Useful Trouble of Rain

_Probable nor'east to sou'west winds, varying to the southard and westard and easterd and points between; high and low barometer, sweeping round from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes with thunder and lightening._

\--Mark Twain, "New England Weather"

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What had begun as fitful showers on that raw Gwirith morn had settled into steady, pouring rain.  Snatching a peek up at the low, heavy clouds as she paused to collect her breath, Saelon drew the greased wool of her cloak more closely about her.  Such a pour was a fine thing for the newly sown bere, and the tender shoots of wheat and oats in their small plots, fenced with hurdles to keep the geese from them, but the day was no longer fit for man nor beast.

Yet when she toiled the rest of the way up the slick grassy slope facing the sea, she found them still there.

Giving the rump of one of the sodden ponies a slap and a shove so she could step under the cliff's overhang, though it gave little shelter now that the wind was veering west, Saelon gazed at the stolid huddle of Dwarves in the furtherest reach of the shallow cave, their normally colorful hoods muted with dimness and wet, and shook her head.  "Masters," she said reprovingly as they looked around, startled by the noise and shift of their beasts, "I thought you had more sense than this.  Why have you not come over to the hall?"

Even Nordri, placid for a Dwarf, looked mumpish, his mutter almost lost under the thrumming of the rain.  "This will slacken shortly, Lady.  We need not trouble you—"

Saelon set a hand on her hip; she had no patience with such courteous nonsense.  "Do you think we would grudge you shelter and something hot?"  Or that they would expect payment for mere neighborly hospitality?  "We would not have that roof but for your trouble.  Come over, where you can all wait in some comfort!"

A half-dozen, no, seven pairs of deep-set eyes turned to the stonemason, dark in the gloom.  Thyrnir was there, and Nordri's son Nyr; Rekk's prentice Ingi and the stonecutter Aðal—the other three she remembered from her recent visit to Veylin's halls, but they had not yet visited Habad-e-Mindon.  That comparative strangers should be hesitant to presume was proper, but those who had aided them in their direst need and slain _raugs_ in Srathen Brethil should not doubt their welcome.

Nordri lifted a hand as if to draw off his hood, then thought better of it as a gust of wind drove spray into their rough shelter.  "It is not your generosity we doubt, Lady, only this dratted weather!  Losing so much time is vexing enough; I fear we would resent missing any break through traipsing back and forth."

From the louring looks of some of his companions—particularly the one in the, was it a dark brown hood?  So hard to tell in this poor light; Hodr, was that his name?—not all of them would regret trading an hour or two's work for a seat by a fire and a cup of ale.  "What did you expect in Gwirith?  The weather is fickle at this season, true, but this is no short spate."  She glanced over her shoulder at the leaden sky, then back at the Dwarves, obstinate in their misery.  It would not do to press them; they were already crabbed.  If she were determined on finishing a piece of work, she would resent being taken from it, even for motives of kindness.  "You must do as you think best, Masters.  If you come, there is room for your ponies in the byre-cave, where they will be close at hand."

So she left them to settle the matter among themselves, hastening down the slope and across the machair in hopes of making it back to shelter before her cloak soaked quite through.  She did pause when she reached the top of the track, which was running like a younger brother of the clattering burn beside . . . and saw a train of led ponies picking its way down to the edge of the ploughlands below.  Smiling, she spun and fled to the outer door of the hall, opening it just enough to slip into the narrow entranceway, the high-set lamp flickering in the damp gust from without.  After hanging her dripping cloak on one of the pegs set in the wall and slipping off her muddy brogues, she lifted the latch on the inner door and stepped into the snug, softly lit warmth of the hall.

"Had they gone?" Fransag asked, glancing up from the cauldron where she was stewing the less tender joints of the cow lost to calf-fever.

"Dwarves?" Saelon laughed.  "Of course not."  Pausing to chafe her hands over the ruddy glow of the peat fire, she went back to the ale-tub in the corner and lifted the lid.  Less than she had thought, but still ample.  Taking up the stoup, she dipped it full, to refresh the ale mulling in the small kettle set in the corner of the hearth.  "Nor were they sure they should leave what shelter they had found near their work.  But they seem to have decided to come."

"What are they doing over there?"  Dírmaen set aside the arrow he had just fletched, and picked up another shaft.

"Cutting stone to use in their hall."  Saelon considered how much ale was in the kettle, then went back for another stoupful.

Halpan, on the next bench along the wall, looked up from the hide he was dressing and gazed at the smooth, pale rock around them, which kindly gave back the glow of the lamps.  "Yes, I can see why they would want it.  Their hall is cut from dark stone, which makes it rather gloomy."

"Do they have the right to the stone?" Dírmaen wanted to know, glancing up at her with a frown as she passed.  "You did not give them leave, did you, Lady?"

"No, I did not," she assured him, displeased by his suspicion, as stubborn as the Dwarves themselves.  The Ranger had left off urging them to return to Srathen Brethil, as Veylin had required, but always he found some grounds for criticism or doubt.  Taking up the tongs, she dropped one of the larger boiling stones into the ale, where it hissed, raising fragrant steam.  "Gwinnor told me that Dwarves have rights to wood and stone in the lands around the mountains.  Surely you do not fear that Lindon will believe we have mined the cliff?"

From the other side of the hearth, where he sat with his youngest dozing at his breast, her chubby little hand knotted in the curls of his black beard, Maelchon chuckled softly.  "As soon blame the Dwarves for tilling."

"How many are they?" Fransag wondered more practically, casting her gaze on Murdag, milling beside the shut door of her family's chamber.  The lower menfolk—Partalan, Teig and Airil, Canand and Fokel—were probably in there with Finean.  Hopefully they had no more than a pail of ale with them, and were not dicing.  The swordsman was amusing himself with the cottars and menservants, and doing them little good.  "Do you think they will stay to supper?"

"Eight.  Who can say?  It will depend on the weather, I suppose."  Saelon looked around.  "Artan, Leod—would you bring those two benches nearer the hearth?  They are certainly wet, probably to the skin.  Where is Rian?"

"In your chamber with the other lasses, weaving as they spin," Halpan replied, getting up and moving to sit beside Dírmaen.  "Here, take this one as well."

Saelon smiled gratefully at him and told Murdag, "Grind enough for our guests as well.  If they do not sup with us, it will be that much less to do tomorrow."  Such a luxury, to be able to say that!  This time last year, when Lindon's first emissary had deepened her anxieties, they had not been able to offer him anything better than water.  Now they had their leasehold assured and half a year's corn in kist.  No wonder everyone was in such mild temper.

Except Gaernath and Leod, of course, which was why Gaernath was next door in her old cave, watching over the boys where their rambunctious roughhousing could cause little mischief, while Leod was helping his brother twist rope down the length of the hall.

As if thought had summoned, the door was flung open; a chill draft and Gormal, Maelchon's eldest, burst in on them.  "Dwarves!" he cried.  "Dwarves have come!"

"That's no excuse for not shutting the outer door behind you," his mother told him sharply.  "Come in or go back out!"

"Which Dwarves?" his father wanted to know, stroking the head of the babe startled from sleep by her brother's shouts.  "They have names."

The lad hesitated, looking from one parent to the other, uncertain which to satisfy first.

"Shut that door!" Fransag commanded.

Gormal ducked back out, slamming the door.  Maelchon snorted and shook his head.  As the babe began to fuss, he rose and took her into his family's chamber, where Gràinne and Tearlag were watching over the littlest ones.

Saelon stepped into her own chamber to fetch Grani's finely turned cups and herbs for the ale.  When she opened the door, the murmur of quiet talk stopped abruptly, but Rian, Muirne, and Unagh smiled on her once she had stepped in.  "Do we have guests, aunt?" Rian asked from her seat before the small loom Partalan had made, seeing her stoop for the kist of cups.

"Yes, lass.  Master Nordri and his followers were delving across the way when they were caught by the rain.  It would be good of you—" she included all three in her glance "—to step out and greet them, but there is no need for you to stop your work to join the company."

Yet they did; and when Partalan stuck his head out of Finean's door to rebuke the irrepressible shouts of Hanadan and Guaire, and saw the cause of their excitement, the rest of the men came out as well.  Visitors, even if uncanny folk, and the chance for news or a fresh tale were better excitement than gaming for the slender reward of their scanty possessions.

It took more than one round of ale as well as a heaping platter of butter-dripping bannocks to coax the grumpish Dwarves to sociability.  They testily refused to give over more than their cloaks and hoods for drying, but as they sat there, stiff and sodden, Halpan reminded them of the keen contest to drain the tarn in Srathen Brethil, which a thorough drenching had not halted.  Nordri's crew had won, and the four surviving members were all here; Halpan had been on the opposing team, with Thyrnir and Ingi; and as the seven of them wrangled over the debatable points as former comrades were wont to do, Dírmaen being appealed to as an impartial witness, their guests grew drier and more affable.

Gamal, who Saelon only now learned was a former prentice of Nordri's as well as Grani's son, shook his head at the offer of a third cup of ale.  "Very kind, Lady, but no.  Should the weather break, I will need to trust my eye and hand.  Though this stone is less treacherous to cut wet than many others.  A fine site for a hall," he allowed, gazing on the birches carved by the door with a subtle air of regret, "if you do not mind the waves always growling at your door.  Is this limestone why you settled here?"

"I know almost nothing about stone," Saelon confessed, "beyond which ones are good for boiling and that some plants grow better on one kind than another.  In truth, I favored the place for the view of the sea."

"You jest," Gamal protested, cornflower-blue eyes uneasy beneath his fair brows.

"No, she does not," Thyrnir attested, reaching over to help himself to another bannock.  "She even walks the shore when storms rage, for pleasure."

"Why do you fear the sea so?" Saelon asked.  She had never gotten a satisfactory answer, not even from Veylin.  "Has it harmed your folk in some way?"

"Why do you trust it so?" Gamal countered.  "Can you not see that it rose in such might that it carved the caves in these high cliffs?"

"Uncounted years ago."

"Near three thousand.  And it drowned wide lands west of here some three thousand years before that.  Why should it not march inland to wreck and scour again?"

"You fear that such calamity might strike at any time?"  Restraining her incredulity was an effort, but she must not offend her guest as she had offended Thyrnir in the first awkward days of their acquaintance, mistaking his mislike of the sea for a sign of evil intent.  Saelon did not think he had quite forgiven her yet.

For by all appearances, Gamal found her ease as dubious.  "I have not heard that it gave much warning of its wrath, when last it rose."

Thyrnir snorted.  "Her own brother could not argue her into sense on this point, so do not waste your breath.  If you wish something from the shore, however, charge her with the commission.  Or this one!" he exclaimed, breaking into a smile as Hanadan flopped over the end of their bench, a wooden sword drooping in his hand.  He and the other boys had been inspired to reenact the battle against the _raugs_ by the talk among the men.  "He is nearly as bad."

"Bad?"  Hanadan gave him a look of wounded bafflement.  "What have I done?"

Saelon could not help laughing at her youngest kinsman.  Though often a vexing child, he was not naughty, only too venturesome for his age and neverendingly curious.  "Master Thyrnir means that you like to play on the strand."

"How is that bad?"

Gamal shook his head, grinning at the boy's confusion.  "You Men are truly strange."

"These two are strange even for Men," Thyrnir declared.  The warm light of the lamp struck a gleam from his eyes like the green of spring when the sun broke through the clouds, belying his harsh words.  "As is that stripling who is trying to be a firebeard."  He pointed out Gaernath, who sat beside Halpan, staring moodily at Murdag and tugging absently at the ruddy down of his maiden beard, with a short jerk of the flaming red-gold on his chin.  "Why else would they be so friendly to Dwarves?"

Beyond the hearth, a breathy roar was followed by daring cries, the ominous crack of failing wood, and the crashing tumult of bench and boys coming down in tangled confusion.

"Ho!  Maon!  Guaire!" Maelchon thundered, rising up over the fiend and its would-be slayers, who were already turning on each other with recriminations.  "Are you bull-calves, to behave so, and in front of guests?  If you will be beasts, go to the byre-cave!  Gormal," he rumbled, as the younger two fled, "as you hope for mercy, those ponies had best be handsome when Master Nordri is ready to leave."

"Aye, Da," the boy muttered, with a quick duck of his head.  "Your pardon, Masters."  Then he followed his brothers, though remembering to shut the door behind him.

"I do not know what has gotten into them!" Fransag protested, her broad face flushed with mortification, as Hanadan slipped stealthily after his disgraced companions.

Nordri chuckled, leaning down to pick up a broken bench leg.  "From what I have seen, I would guess they are too used to having all the country round about to battle in.  If I had realized how active your children would be when full-fed, I would have cut you a larger hall."

Thyrnir, who had gone to look at the shattered bench, shook his head over it.  "It is not worth mending," he declared.  "Let them have it to make themselves shields, or burn it for firewood."

Maelchon sighed deeply, looking perversely proud as well as rueful as he gazed on the wreckage.  "They are lively rascals, it's true, and are bound to find more mischief, not less, as they grow.  Now that our holding is assured, I would build a house somewhat apart, were it not for the limit on how much timber we can fell.  My wife—" he glanced at Fransag, who sniffed and turned back to cutting roots for the stew "—would like a hearth of her own, and the children would be less trouble to the rest of you."

"Hanadan is no better," Halpan insisted, shaking his head.  "It was only a bench.  We will not banish you for that."

"Surely you can get a house from the oak you are allowed," Thyrnir said, looking up from the piece of plank he had been examining.  "There is a tree in the wood that should give you three couple of crucks, if cut skillfully, as well as the ridgebeam.  If you were short, you could piece crucks together from such wood as lies on the shore."

Maelchon looked uncertain.  "Our house in Srathen Brethil had four couples of stout posts, each a tree in itself.  And what are we to do for walls?  One tree would not even give enough for planking, and this is no country for daubed wattle, the winter storms being so terrible."

"There is no shortage of stone," Nyr pointed out, bemused that so obvious a thing must be pointed out.  So Thyrnir had suggested they enlarge the caves, when her people had first arrived.

"They have no skill with stone," Thyrnir reminded him.  He considered Maelchon, his fiery head cocked to one side.  "You were willing to pay in grain for a plow.  Would you do the same for a house?"

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As his people came up from their workshops for supper, they found those before them gathered in the corner of the hall instead of around the table, and wandered over to see what had attracted such interest.  Veylin sat a little back from where Nordri had clad a goodly stretch of the two walls in White Cliffs limestone, so the latecomers could get a fair view of what the facing would look like.  He was happy with the effect himself, but for so public a space as this, it was as well to let everyone speak their mind.  How there could be objections to a fairer hall was beyond him, but thirty years as chieftain had taught him that Khazâd could disagree on almost anything.  The colony had begun with a happy combination of kin and friends and followers; now, joined by others whose bonds were not so close, things were becoming less harmonious.

Those three days he had been absent, confronting Gwinnor, and the orders to keep close within doubly guarded doors, had shaken the confidence of some.  Which included, alas, Auð.

And himself.  Yet he could not let his private anxieties mar the soundness of the overall venture.  There was more here than opal.

"Less work for me, I see!" Laufi jested, before taking one of his lamps from its place by the hearth and trying the play of its light on the pale stone.

"Very nice," Bersi said, giving Nordri the nod one master craftsman passes to another.

Siggr was stroking his umber beard, a pensive look on his face.

"A great improvement," Vitnir declared, with all the authority of Veylin's heir.  He and his followers had finally rejoined them, now that the spring rains had made what passed for roads in Eriador foul mires, and trade slackened until summer baked them to dust.  "What are the Men charging for the stone?"

Rekk snorted.  The ironmaster's pomposity irritated him, boding ill for the future.  "Nothing.  Lindon granted them leasehold, not freehold . . . and you know how scrupulous Saelon is."

"Prodigal, you mean."  Vitnir reached out and stroked the stone.

Hearing his nearest kinsman speak so tried Veylin's temper sorely, but he kept his teeth shut.  He had spoken his mind to Vitnir on this; if his cousin persisted in thinking Saelon foolish, he was the one who would suffer.

Along with those left in his charge.  Sometimes, Veylin was glad his nephews were under another chieftain.

Having drawn back, Auð gazed down on him matter-of-factly.  "You cannot deny she has little eye for profit," she murmured.

Before he could answer, Nordri chuffed.  "The Lady has done well for herself and her people, all in all.  I, for one, did not think we would have any trade with them so soon.  Yet once I have finished here, Grani and I will be building Maelchon a house."

"They cannot even shelter themselves?" Siggr exclaimed, with incredulous scorn.

Grani frowned at the jointer.  The two woodwrights were at odds; Siggr was civil to the carpenter, but disparaged the rougher nature of his craft to those who would listen.  "Men build mostly with timber, yet the Elves have cruelly limited what they may take from the wood, and there was no carpenter among those who fled here.  They could cobble together a house, but Maelchon is willing to pay for skill."  When Thyrnir had returned with word that the husbandman was interested in their services, the carpenter had wasted no time, riding along with Nordri's work party the next day to discuss the matter with the Man.

Pleased that Thyrnir could find business for his master even here, and satisfied that good relations had closed the deal without delay, Veylin huffed under his breath.  Why were some so blind to the opportunities the Men presented?  Or did they believe them too trifling, too fleeting to trouble with?  Not every gleam led to a good vein, it was true . . . but then many of them preferred common stone or iron for their livelihoods, content to pay the venturesome for their gems.

If only he could be certain Gwinnor had ridden straight back to Mithlond, he would dare to visit the opal dyke.  Yet why might not the Elf have tarried, to see what his rival did once he thought him gone?  Better to wait; not all caution was timidity.

"If this farmer is not content with the hall you delved them—which is fine, by all accounts," Ketli, Vitnir's coalmaster, told Nordri, "why should he be happier in a house of your building?"

"Have you ever heard of Men living so long under stone?" Bersi's son Barði asked.  "It is unnatural to them."

Haki snorted.  "It is the size of Maelchon's family that is unnatural.  Is it any wonder, their children running wild as they do, that he should wish to keep them further off, so they are not such a vexation to the others?"

"Running wild?" Auð echoed, disapproving.

Nordri waved a hand in dismissal.  "Boys playing at fiend-slaying."  He smiled at Nyr.  "I have known good dwarf-lads who broke more than a bench in such battles.  Their only fault was carrying on so before guests.  The wonder is that his wife can keep any order at all, with so many children, and all so young!  You have some objection," he asked his ironmaster, "to so many more sturdy, active farmers for neighbors in a score of years?"

"I suppose not," Haki allowed.  "Provided their herds and fields increase in proportion."

Rekk laughed.  "Would Lindon have put such strict bounds on the Men, if they did not fear they would prosper overmuch?  And us with them?  Who cares why Maelchon wants a roof of his own, provided he is willing to pay us to raise it.  I seem to recall—" he craftily split his glance between Vitnir and Haki "—Saelon saying that the women of Men consider hearths their lordships.  When Saelon and Fransag divide the one between them, both will lack ironmongery.  Perhaps you, too, should ride over with Nordri and see what you can get."

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Notes

**Brogues** : from Scots Gaelic, _bròg_ , "shoe"; the traditional footwear of the Highlands.  While in the modern usage a brogue is a stout walking shoe, in the Iron Age and Medieval periods it was a [light shoe of deerskin](http://www.tartansauthority.com/assets/images/dress/Ancient/Deerskin%20shoes.jpg), often with decoratively cut openings on the upper.

**Crucks** : the [curved beams](http://www.outofoblivion.org.uk/images/domestic_arch/cruck.gif) that served as wall and roof supports in medieval longhouses and later cottages.  This was a more economical use of wood than post-in-ground construction, which is first seen in Neolithic longhouses.

**Ridgebeam** : also roof-tree; the [beam at the peak of a roof](http://wiki.diyfaq.org.uk/images/b/bd/RoofJoineryNames1.jpg).

**Daubed wattle** : in many areas of northwestern Europe, Iron Age and later house walls were commonly [wattle panels covered with clay](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3160/2398500011_6991d501a3.jpg) ("wattle and daub").  While this may sound primitive, the plaster or wallboard in modern houses is merely a highly refined version of clay cladding.


	12. Houseraising

_I did not dream the taste of wine could bind with granite,_  
_Nor honey and milk please you; but sweetly_  
_They mingle down the storm-worn cracks among the mosses,_  
_Interpenetrating the silent_  
_Wing-prints of ancient weathers long at peace, and the older_  
_Scars of primal fire, and the stone_  
_Endurance that is waiting millions of years to carry  
_ _A corner of the house, this also destined._

\--Robinson Jeffers, "To the Rock That Will Be a Cornerstone of the House"

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The site of Maelchon's new house was no short stroll from the hall, tucked into the hollow of the land behind the cliff not far from the river, beside good ground for plough and beasts.  Despite the distance, Saelon often found herself there, fascinated by the growth of the dwelling.  Only once before had she seen a house built, as a lass in Srathen Brethil.  The thatch of Engus's roof had caught fire, taking the sagging wooden walls with it.  His neighbors had banded together with axe and maul and wedge to put a roof over his family's heads; her father had sent permission to cut timber and a team to haul the logs.  It had taken two days to replace the plank-sided, heather-thatched cott: a hasty affair, rough but serviceable, which grew ever more crooked as the green wood dried.

She was curious to see what the Dwarves, exacting craftsmen that they were, would produce.  Seasoned wood, the desirability of a foundation, drylaid or mortared stone, trenails or spikes . . . such snatches she had overheard when Maelchon negotiated with Nordri and Grani, along with a surprisingly heated argument between Fransag and the Dwarves regarding the placement of the hearth.

There was not a whole troop this time; Maelchon did not have Veylin's purse.  Grani and Thyrnir went with Maelchon, his manservant, and his horses to the oakwood: the fresh-cut oak was laboriously dragged to the Dwarves' hall, and Nordri and Nyr accompanied them as they brought baulks of long-seasoned timber back to the site.  The four Dwarves stayed in her old cave to be near the work, and the men of her household brought meat to the table and tended the herds while the cottars labored beside them, gathering stones and cutting poles and thatch for the roof.

When Saelon first went out, there was little to be seen but heaps of stone and soil, and chips of flying wood, as the masons leveled the ground and the carpenters began shaping the strong curves of the crucks that would carry the roof.  Then for two days the walls began to rise—carefully laid stone within and without, clean earth and moss packed into the space between against drafts.  Nyr showed her how the inner and outer walls were tied together at intervals by longer stones, and the slots in the inner wall for seating the short-legged crucks, well above any dampness that might rot the wood.

Returning from the upper watermeadows with comfrey and flag roots on the fourth day, Saelon saw roof timbers reared above the riverbank, like the ribs and chine of the monstrous sea creature that had been cast ashore in a northern bay years before and slowly weathered to bone.  A dull hammering reached her ears as she climbed from the path to admire their progress, and when she saw Thyrnir clinging where the cross-beams met the high-arched crucks, driving pegs home, she gaped in marveling astonishment.

"You like it, Lady?" Nordri asked, coming over to join her.  Grani stood within the walls, craning his neck to watch his prentice's work high above the ground, and Nyr was picking over the stones the cottars had brought up from the riverbed, trying their heft and balance.  Airil was perched on a boulder near the other end of the house, his grey beard ruffled by the breeze, gesticulating emphatically as he spoke to Finean, who carefully coiled the long heather ropes they must have used to raise the roof-beams.

"It looks very handsome."  There was a pleasant irregularity in the run of variegated stone, some dark and some light grey, with a faint sparkle in the lowering rays of the sun.  Already it looked a stout home, proof against whatever gale might howl, though the upper courses of stone were still to be laid.  "Maelchon must be pleased—I see you managed four couple after all."

The mason's rust-colored whiskers twitched, though his tone was bland.  "So good a husbandman needs ample room for his crop."  They stood in silence, watching as Thyrnir clambered carefully down from his perch, only to cross and climb the other cruck of the pair, holding tight with his legs and free hand as he hammered the trenails that secured the other end of the cross-beam.  Grani called something up to him, and Thyrnir jammed his small maul into his belt before reaching precariously out with both hands to adjust the angle of the beam.

Saelon found she was holding her breath, and turned to Nordri for distraction.  "You Dwarves seem such an earthbound folk," she said.  "It looks strange for one of you to be so high in the air."

Nordri chuckled, then cast a discreet glance about them to be sure none of her menfolk were near.  "You have been in our hall and seen the height of its vault.  Did you think we began at the top, and cut downwards?"

"I must confess that I do not even have a proper idea of how you cut our hall, so distracted was I at the time."  Saelon gave him an abashed smile.  "You used scaffolding, did you not?"

"We did."

"So, Lady," Maelchon called, coming over to join them and gazing on the half-built house with the same slightly anxious pride he had given his youngest when Saelon first set her in his arms, "do you think it will suit?"

"What does Fransag say?  That is more to the point."  Looking back at the house, she sighed.  "I envy you the windows already."

"She has not seen it yet."

Frowning at him, but not severely, Saelon declared, "Maelchon, that black ploughhorse of yours is placid enough—it will do her and the babe no harm to sit him this far."  A short ride, but a long way for a woman eight moons gone with child to walk.  "I do not see how she can be displeased, but it would be better to hear any complaints now, when there is less to alter."

The Dwarf gave him a significant look, one husband to another.  "Your Lady is wise."

The black-bearded husbandman grunted.  "You speak," he observed, brow cocked questioningly, "as if a woman gave you your sons, instead of stone."

"I have seen how set your spouse is in her desires," Nordri replied, his gaze going thoughtfully to Saelon.  "Work is rarely improved by being redone later."

"I am only thinking of Fransag," she asserted.  If Maelchon doubted the old tales of the Dwarves, it was none of her doing; she respected their reticence about their womenfolk.  Dírmaen, though, may have spoken of what he learned from Gwinnor.  "So fine a house will surely settle her mind."  The woman had enough to worry her, without wondering where she would lay when she was brought to childbed.

"Oh, she has heard of everything.  The children tell her of it neverendingly."  Maelchon glanced over to where Maon sat by Nyr, watching him sort the stones the boy had helped lug up from the riverbed.

"It is not the same as seeing it for herself," Saelon insisted.

And so the next day, after Maelchon had set her sideways on the broad-backed black, Saelon kept Fransag company, hiding her smiles at the woman's carping disparagement of the still unseen house, knowing she was merely keeping her hopes low, not trusting the judgment of husband or children.  But when they came up from the river, Fransag fell silent; and when she walked through the unlinteled doorway into the roofless walls of her new home, she was weeping for joy, the easy tears of a bearing woman, exclaiming over the size of it, the loftiness of the roof, the partition setting off a private chamber at one end, and the paving of the floor.  She kissed Maelchon so many times that he went as red as Gaernath when Murdag gazed on him, and the Dwarves—already amply thanked and praised—quickly found work that need doing outside the walls.

Nordri and his son finished the stonework the next morning, which allowed Grani and Thyrnir to hang the stout doors and shutters they had hewn from sea-seasoned oak, so tough it dulled their adzes almost as fast as they could whet them.  They also made a louver for the smoke-hole, which they left for the cottars to set in place once the roof was done.

"Two days, if the weather holds," Maelchon told the Dwarves as they loaded tools onto their ponies for the amble home, while Finean and Fokel showed Airil's grandsons the proper way to bundle heather for thatching.  "Then we will bless the house with a feast.  Come back, and bring such of your fellows who would drink a cup and wish us well!"

"We will," Nordri assured him.

Even as the turves were laid between the hazel-poles and the first bundles of heather lashed down along the eaves, Fransag was there to oversee the installation of her goods.  Of all those who had fled Srathen Brethil, Maelchon had brought the most away.  Little enough, still—Fransag sorely wanted beds, especially—but kists had overflowed their crowded chamber.  Now the boxes and barrels that held their clothing and foodstuffs looked sparse in that spacious house, though Saelon had no doubt that before long they would be joined by more than a simple board and a share of the benches from the hall.  For her part, she planted a young rowan by their door to ward off ill, and made Fransag a present of two newly mated pairs of geese and a skep of bees.

An excellent woman, Fransag; a good mother and shrewd manager, the kind no community could prosper without.  Yet all the same, Saelon was glad she need not face her across the hearth first thing every morning any longer.  The departure of Maelchon's family from the hall did not give her back the solitude she craved, but eleven fewer in those close confines was a relief to all who remained.  Saelon moved her kinsmen into the emptied chamber, and Dírmaen joined them, so that he no longer slept in the hall itself, as if he were no more than a servant, an indignity that had troubled her for some time now.

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Dírmaen was buckling on his freshly polished belt when Halpan asked Gaernath, "You are wearing that to the feast?"  Tugging at the shoulder of the dark tunic, which the lad had nearly outgrown, he suggested, "The green one suits you better."

"The green one is torn," Gaernath muttered.  "What does it matter?"

"Do not tell me you have given up on Murdag!"

"She hardly speaks to me any more."

"Why should she, when you are such a surly dog?" Partalan declared bluntly, putting his harp-case over his shoulder.

"Rian would have mended your tunic, if you had asked," Halpan said, belated helpfulness, as they passed through the deserted hall, last to set out for the feast.

Gaernath shrugged and looked sullenly on the swordsman.  "I should like it, when she favors Leod?"

Partalan gave him a short glance of scornful pity.  "Does a stag sulk because a hind gazes on his rival?  Put the cottar-lad in his place and take her, if you want her.  What?" the Dunlending demanded when Dírmaen scowled at him, offended by so base a view of women.  "She is not one of your chilly, willful gentlewomen.  The lad," he clouted Gaernath bracingly, "is a freeman and the Lady's cousin . . . and Leod only a cottar.  The chit cannot prefer the strawhead.  He is no more than her stalking horse," he assured Gaernath, coarsely jaded, "to ensnare you through jealousy.  Do not be so foolish as to wed the first you fancy—you must ride many mounts to know which suits you best."

Halpan shook his head disapprovingly and gave the smirking swordsman a quelling look.  "Certainly you would do well to woo her more ardently," he advised, "but if she prefers Leod, you must accept her choice.  What kind of wife would she make if she does not love you?"

"No wonder you Dúnedain are so few," Partalan derided.  "Is it the Elvish taint in your blood that unmans you?"

"Unmans us?" Halpan scoffed.

The swordsman snorted.  "When was the last time you tumbled a wench?  Either of you?" he added, including Dírmaen in his challenge.

"We do not take our responsibilities lightly," Dírmaen answered coldly, as the younger Dúnadan hung, awkwardly caught between retaining the respect of them both.  All men had their times of weakness; but they were not something to boast of.  A woman could not boast of her part in it, nor a child of such a heedless getting.

"Too proud to make mongrels . . . or admit to them," Partalan came back, undaunted.  Cutting his sardonic eyes to Halpan, he drawled, "I pity you, lad," then looked to Gaernath.  "And you wish you were one of them."

This only seemed to sink the lad deeper into gloom.

Such vulgar talk was, thankfully, ended by their arrival at Maelchon's house: a well-looking place, much like the flint-walled steadings of the Downs, the heather of its roof still green.  Dírmaen wondered what he had promised the Dwarves for it; a portion of several years' harvests, surely.

Yet since they were to stay, it seemed, what else were they to do?  They could not remain crowded in the high cliff hall: an excellent refuge for desperate, frighted folk, but no place for growing families.  In a few years, Artan would most likely build his own cottage nearby, imitating the work of the Dwarves since he could not afford to pay them.

"Welcome, welcome!" Maelchon greeted them jovially, already ruddy with the ale his goodwife was serving out from her seat beside the fire while keeping an eye on their serving woman's touch on the cooking pots.  "Thank you for coming to bless our house.  Please, go and get yourself some ale!"

The ale was very good, milder than Saelon's, not unlike the brew at the Pony.  The Lady sat in the place of honor, on a bench near the door, Dírmaen noticed, looking about him before draining his horn.  Hanadan was perched beside her, prattling to an indulgent-looking Veylin, who leaned casually on his blackthorn stick.  The Dwarves had not come in great numbers: aside from those who had built the house and Veylin, he could see only Vitnir and Thyrnir's brother.

Halpan had gone over to join them, and Dírmaen caught Veylin's reply to the younger Dúnadan's question.  "Rekk would have come, but he is in Stock.  The Shire had much rain this spring, and the mill-dam there gave way.  He will have his hands full, putting all in order before harvest."

So the Dwarves, too, were turning back to their more usual roads.  Dírmaen gazed on Saelon and Veylin with ill-defined dissatisfaction, then went back to have his horn refilled.  Perhaps time would do what he could not.  Now that the _raugs_ and Lindon no longer gave them common cause for alliance, it was to be expected that their differences would separate them.  So large a colony of Dwarves could not be supported on the little Saelon's people could spare, and no one was more self-sufficient than Saelon herself.

Tomorrow, Halpan and Partalan would ride east to seek the scattered folk of Srathen Brethil, hoping to bring them back to their ancestral homes and reestablish the lordship for Halmir, the young heir.  If they were successful, how many would remain here, paying rent to Elves and looking to Dwarves for company, when their own kin and kind dwelt just across the mountains?  Not the young folk and unmatched men, wanting mates and starved for choice.

Partalan's uncouth words had lodged in his brain, and Dírmaen found his thoughts turned that way.  This feast was a celebration of satisfaction, a prosperous family established in a fitting home.  Looking at their host, that black bull of a man, who had abandoned his place at the head of the company when the mutton had been reduced to a heap of bones so that he might set his arm about his big-bellied wife, there was no doubting his contentment.  Further down the board, Muirne had snugged into her husband's side, and his mouth was in her hair, whispering or simply breathing her scent.

With such fulfillment daily before them, was it any wonder Gaernath and Leod burned for Murdag, or that Canand brought Tearlag small presents made while he tended the beasts on the moor?  Among the Edain, taking a wife, keeping her and the children she bore, made one a man.  Yet the Dúnedain reckoned differently: one must be a man first, must earn the right to care for the only treasure remaining to them.  They asked so much of their women, more than the common wifely cares; they must bring more themselves . . . and what did they have except honor and nobility, the keeping of their ancient trusts?  How could these men, their short lives giving them scant time for other duties if they would see their grandchildren, understand that?

Certainly the Dunlending, the Easterling taint plain in his sallow skin, could not.  Gaernath, with enough Dúnedain blood to feel there ought to be more to mating than the slaking of lust, was at a grave disadvantage in his courting of Murdag.  The urgency of Edain blood—the girl's, his rival's, and his own—and the scarcity of women gave him no leisure to reconcile his contradictory desires.  Dírmaen thought the lad could be better matched than with that simple, black-haired lass, but there was no arguing with the fever of a first love.  It would run its course, or take him.

"Your music is good, masters," Leod called when Vitnir and Thyrnir came to the end of a one of their strangely sweet dwarven airs, the fiddle and the pipes crooning like voices, "but give us something we can dance to, as you did at the harvest feast!"  Murdag looked conscious but nothing loathe; Teig eyed his dead brother's sweetheart; and Rian cried out in agreement, bounding up and darting towards where Gaernath sat a little apart, glumly scouring clean the bowl that had held the sloes and cream.

Partalan, who had set his harp aside long enough to quench his thirst, hastened to empty his horn.  "Wait!" he bellowed, as Thyrnir smiled and took a better hold on his bow.  "None of your outlandish tunes yet!  'Gaffer and Gammer' must come first."

"Aye!" Maelchon agreed heartily, drawing Fransag to her feet and grinning at Artan, who laughed and swept Muirne up as well, despite her half-hearted protests.  "Something slow, that we old folks can tread.  Come, Airil, Gràinne—do not lose your chance!  The youngsters can have their lively tunes after."

Sitting unceremoniously down on the board, the Dunlending began to play the bright yet stately matron's dance.  Maelchon led his wife through the steps before their threshold, children cluttered about their feet and clamouring for attention.  The cottar couple joined in at the refrain, Muirne's head on her husband's shoulder so that their golden hair mingled, lighter and darker.  The fiddle came in partway through the second round, the plaintive counterpoint an echo of the faded but not yet quenched joy of Artan's grandfather and Fransag's mother as they moved, slow but steady, through the measure.

When Partalan brought the tune to its satisfying close, everyone cheered and called out their good wishes—and then the swordsman broke into the rollicking prelude to one of the quickest Dúnedain dances.  Rian cried out in joy and yanked Gaernath bodily to his feet, dragging him to a part of the yard that would make a passable dance floor.  Unable to resist her gleeful goading, he began to match her already dancing steps.  For the first few measures, Murdag watched their flying feet with queerly intent hostility, then gave Leod a glance that was both promise and threat.  Dírmaen was surprised by the lad's hesitation until he finally led her out, when it became clear that he did not know the dance, or not well.  Glancing at the harper, the Ranger saw he wore a look of smug satisfaction.

Spurred on by the bewitching tune—and now the fiddle and pipes added their nimble notes—Halpan offered his hand to Unagh.  Though equally unsure, she clearly longed to dance, and with Halpan's guidance, acquitted herself well enough.  But none could match the poised surety of their lord's daughter, who even contrived to make her reluctant partner appear sprightly.  A beautiful girl, keen and kind of heart; she reminded Dírmaen of a young otter, with her sleek dark hair and lithe grace.

Beautiful . . . yet little more than a child, years from the age when the women of the Dúnedain were accustomed to marry, and of high lineage, for all the fallen fortunes of her house.  He gave his head a short shake, and considered the ale remaining in his horn.  It was less innocent than it seemed, or the Dunlending's words had roused something best left slumbering, or both.  Or perhaps the time had finally come to ask leave to return home.  He had not seen his parents for three years, nor his brother and sisters.  He was of an age to wed, and his sisters would delight in putting forward suitable young women for his consideration.  His gaze strayed to Artan, his wife on his lap, lean bronzed arms cradling her and their unborn child as he laughed at his younger brother's furious frustration.

His loneliness was almost more than Dírmaen could bear.

The next dance was a country air the cottars knew well, and Finean whisked Tearlag from clearing the board as Fokel and Canand looked on enviously.  Moving quickly, Rian claimed Leod, an honor he could not well refuse; clearly, the lass had taken her cousin's affairs in hand.  Yet Gaernath gazed on his love like a stricken moon-calf rather than stepping forward, and as the dance began, Halpan swept Murdag up, leaving her sister to rescue the red-headed lad.  As the four couples formed the set, Maelchon considered those standing about with a vague air of longing and snagged Hanadan as he dashed by in the children's mad game of tig.  He crouched to speak with the boy, who grinned and wove through the set towards Saelon.

Pertly he asked her to dance, and she protested; but Hanadan would not give over until she relented, allowing him to lead her to the bottom of the set.  Even more than the cottar lasses in the Dúnedain dance, Saelon put many a foot wrong—as did her diminutive partner—yet she was as ready to laugh as the others at her mistakes, and picked up the pattern after a few turns.

Once on the floor, she could not readily escape.  Halpan took her hand for the next dance with a mischievous smile, and Gaernath, seemingly braced up by Unagh, finally seized the opportunity to claim Murdag.  Before Leod could interfere, Unagh clasped his hands and whirled him into the forming circle.  Fokel took Tearlag.  Rian, looking desperately about, fixed on Dírmaen.  "Come!" she commanded, snatching at his hand.  "You must dance, too!"

And so he was drawn into the gaiety.  To have Rian's slim, light hand in his as she flew through the pattern of the dance stirred his blood as much as the demanding steps . . . but her bright eyes were more often turned to Gaernath than to him, judging how her cousin fared with Murdag.  Awkwardly, at first; Murdag began stiffly, and Gaernath's steps went astray unusually often: a gawky lad plagued by self-consciousness, too much of his heart in what he was doing to do it well.

At the close of the dance, Leod strode towards the pair with his clean-shaven jaw fixed, only to be forestalled by Finean, who took his daughter's hand himself and saw the lad off with a lift of a grey eyebrow.  Canand managed to snare Tearlag, and Unagh gave herself to Leod in consolation, as Saelon gently captured Gaernath and took him to the other end of the set.  With an air of disbelief, Rian watched Halpan make for the ale-tub, then looked back at Dírmaen.  "Well!  I suppose you are stuck with me again.  Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he assured her.  If only she were ten years older, and had the faintest interest in him!

Sure enough, no sooner had the tune finished then she was off to claim Leod again.  Tearlag dropped out, proclaiming herself breathless and in dire need of a cup of ale, which Canand hastened to fetch.  Unagh literally thrust Gaernath towards her younger sister before besetting the refreshed Halpan.  Turning to see if he were free, Dírmaen found himself facing Saelon.  "Would you care to rest, Lady?" he asked, so that she might have a ready excuse for refusing his hand.

"No, not at all," she assured him; and in truth, though her cheeks were a ruddier shade of brown, she was no more breathless than Rian.  "Do not tell me that a Ranger is weary after only two dances!"

"Your niece is a lively girl," he told her, smiling back, "but not so lively as that."

His eye on Gaernath and Murdag, Partalan struck up the tune for one of the more boisterous circle dances, and fiddle and pipes soon joined in the glee.  Round and round they went, the women passed from hand to hand, then the couples came together to spin around their joined hands.  The youths delighted in whirling dizzyingly fast, and the bystanders chaffed the pair of them for their more sedate pace.  With a glint in her eye, Saelon let go his fingers and took his wrists in her slim, strong hands, ready to take up the challenge.  Yet they only had time for a few spins before they must break off and go around the circle again, Rian and Unagh weaving and giggling over their unsteadiness.

Though she did not have her niece's light grace, Saelon had an assurance—this wild dance she apparently knew very well—that became her better.  In and out they wove the chain, the two brown-tressed Dúnedain women and the two black-maned cottar lasses.  Dírmaen recognized Saelon's touch the moment her hand came back to his: more slender than those of the cottars', rougher than Rian's.  She was no douce Dúnedain maiden, plying nothing harsher than spindle and shuttle, needle and cup.  When they closed around his sinewy wrists for the swinging spin, he grinned at the look of fierce determination on her handsome, hawk-proud face.  There was no need to hold back; what this woman grasped would never be let fall.

When they and the music finally came to a halt in the enchanting Lothron twilight, Saelon was breathless—and laughing regardless, her hair as windblown as if she had just come from the shore.  Her bronzed face was flushed, and her sea-grey eyes shining . . . simply joyful, as he had never seen her before.  The beauty of her was like that of a grim land under rain, struck to sudden radiance when the sun broke through the cloud and struck all the drops to glittering jewels, unsuspected color flaming to vivid life.

"Kiss 'em good and hearty!" Partalan roared, the traditional end to this wild dance.

Dírmaen turned his head as if to look at Gaernath and his love, just enough so Saelon's blithe buss fell on his cheek; and barely there, her standing a tip-toe to reach so high.  If Saelon's lips had met his, he did not think he would have relinquished them as he ought.

How Gaernath fared, he could not later tell, aware of naught but the warm strength that lay in his hands, weightless and soft as a trusting falcon.

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Notes

**Maul** : a two-handed [hammer with a wooden head](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_yd49p7NBg-g/SULrRy4gNWI/AAAAAAAAAJo/fii6QCwew5Q/s400/tool+pics+057.jpg), used for driving posts or wedges.  Until the later medieval period, planks were usually radially split or cloven rather than sawn.

**Seasoned wood** : timber should be set aside to dry and harden before it is used, to reduce warping and shrinkage.  The traditional rule was one year for each inch of thickness.

**Drylaid or mortared stone** : in drystone construction, no mortar is used to bind the stones together.  In wet, cold climates like that of the Scottish Highlands, mortar often deteriorates rapidly due to leaching and/or frost heaving, while some skillfully build drystone structures from the Iron Age (and earlier) remain substantially intact today.

**Trenails or spikes** : a trenail is a wooden peg used to join timbers, while a spike is an oversized nail.  Again, it is a question of durability: in such a humid climate, iron rusts more quickly than protected wood rots.

**Baulk** : a roughly squared timber beam.

**"carefully laid stone within and without, clean earth and moss packed in the space between"** : the construction described here is essentially that of a blackhouse, the dominant house form in Highland Scotland from soon after Vikings brought the longhouse to the region until the late 18th\- and 19th-century Clearances destroyed traditional settlement patterns.

**Comfrey** ( _Symphytum officinale_ or _tuberosum_ ): a medicinal herb used to stop bleeding and knit bones.

**Chine** : backbone.

**"slowly weathered to bone"** : in August 1995, at the end of what was then the hottest summer in British meteorological history, I saw the carcass of a sperm whale that had been beached on the West Highland coast by a gale the preceding December.  Bone could only be seen where someone had taken a chainsaw to it to remove teeth and several tail vertebrae.  Contrary to expectations, dead whales do not decompose quickly.

**Adze** :[a woodworking tool](http://www.trp.dundee.ac.uk/research/glossary/images/adze.jpg) similar to an axe, except that the cutting edge is horizontal instead of vertical.

**"louver for the smoke-hole"** : in traditional longhouses, the hearth was in the center of the principal room for efficiency of heating; obviously, a chimney wasn't feasible.  In the meanest, a hole would simply be left in the roof to allow smoke to escape—although this would also let the weather in.  Most had some kind of panel which could be opened and adjusted to suit the wind, though this might also leak a bit in foul weather.  ([Here's one](http://www.sfu.ca/archaeology/museum/danielle_longhouse/keepers/haiside2new.jpg) on a Northwest Coast house model.)  Maelchon's house has a similar louver.  Traditional West Highland blackhouses had no smoke-hole at all, due to the ferocity of winter gales, and were notoriously smoky: you simply hung your fish in the rafters to smoke them, and after a year or two the soot-impregnated thatch made excellent fertilizer for the fields.

**Turves** : the plural of turf; pieces of sod.  These were used as the underlayer of the roof.

**Stalking horse** : a hunting technique, where the hunter approaches game under the cover provided by a tame herbivore (usually horse, cattle, or deer), which reassures or distracts the prey.

**"fiddle and pipes"** : Thyrnir plays the crowd, an early form of fiddle, and Vitnir plays the small pipes, a less martial form of bagpipes held in the lap.

**Moon-calf** : a simpleton, someone with a congenital mental defect; originally, a calf deformed or aborted due to the ill influence of the moon.


	13. Gentle as Falcon

Thig trì nithean gun iarraidh                        _Three things come without seeking  
_ An t-eagal, an t-iadach 's an gaol                _jealousy, terror and love_

\--Anonymous, " _Thig trì nithean gun iarraidh_ "

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The next morning, rather later than Halpan had wished, he and a sore-headed Partalan set out for the mountains and the lands beyond the Lune, leaving Dírmaen guardian of Habad-e-Mindon.

At the time when he would have most wished to have Saelon's kinsman and hound here, they handed him their duties and pursued others, tying his hands.  He could not plead his suit in their absence: if Saelon refused him—which seemed all too likely—how could she avoid him or send him away, leaving Gaernath as huntsman and defender?  It would be dishonorable, an abuse of the trust he had been given.

So began a season of gentle torment, for he could not see Saelon without wanting her, and faint hope fed on suspense.

Some respite he got when she went to attend Fransag, who gave Maelchon a third daughter; and again when Muirne was brought to childbed.  No man stayed within the hall, to be riven by the cries that came from Artan's chamber, but fled to the little cave to talk desperately of everything and anything save birthing and babes all the night through.  Yet is was Saelon who came to them in the milk-mild Nórui dawn bearing Muirne's victory, another fine son.  Watching her handle the tiny new life with tender care, Dírmaen wondered why she had not wed already, that she might have babes of her own.

Of his own.

Thereafter he spent more time away from Habad-e-Mindon, on the excuse of hunting.  A good excuse, for they needed more fox pelts and a pair of wolves for their rent, and he had seen no sign of wolf near the sea.  The fur would not be good, taken in summer, but they had no choice for this year, and his forays into the edges of the mountains, learning the land there, occupied his body and thoughts.  Since one missed much from horseback, he tramped long weary leagues, enough that he slept without dreams.

Gaernath, suffering still more as Leod's suit prospered, he often took with him, teaching him the finer points of tracking, toughening his sinews, and giving him what ease could be found in exhaustion.  At first, he had not thought a lad of the Edain could bear many such journeys, but Gaernath had a generous measure of hardiness from his Dúnedain grandmother and refused no opportunity to go abroad with him.  As summer deepened, Dírmaen wondered whether there might be a place for a red-headed Ranger, conspicuous though he must be.

One day, when Gaernath had stopped back to help Canand cut hay, Dírmaen looked down from the crook-backed ridge to see if deer were cropping the berry bushes below and saw instead that slight brown figure, trim as a doe.  For a long time he crouched in the bracken and watched her pick berries, debating with himself; free, in his wretched solitude, to gaze with naked yearning.

She should not wander alone this way.  It was a temptation to ill.

Then her single-minded hands faltered, and Saelon began scanning the land about her with an uneasy eye.  Doe-like, she had sensed his fixed gaze.  A reassuring thing to see, but nonetheless . . . .

Abruptly Dírmaen rose from the dense green fronds and waved to catch her eye.  It would not do to leave her unsettled, breaking into her work.  He must not be peculiar.  Trial though it would be, he would step down and ask what sign she had seen.  If he could not do so much without disgrace, he ought not to remain in Habad-e-Mindon.

"Greetings, Dírmaen!" she called, as he came down the slope.  "Is something amiss?  You range so much of late that I've scarce seen you."

"Lady," he returned, with a respectful bow of his head.  "No, all is well, so far as I can tell.  Yet with Halpan and Partalan away, I must do three men's work.  How are the berries this season?"

"Very good.  Here—" she dipped into her basket, and held out blaeberries.  "Have some.  You are beginning to look gaunt, even for a Ranger," she jested.

Was he falling off, lovesick?  Perhaps he had been eating less of late.  That would not do.  "Thank you."  Her slim, tanned hand, stained by the fruit, touched his as she poured the dark morsels into his palm.

"I should thank you," she told him, "for taking such pains with Gaernath."

The fruit slaked thirst as well as hunger, their taste richer for the sun's warmth.  "He is a fine lad.  A pity that he favors the Edain, else I would recommend him for a Ranger when he is older."

How did she manage to look pleased and contrary at the same time, as sweetly tart as the berries?  "In some things," she defended her young cousin, "but not in all."  As if to avoid even so small a disagreement, she changed the subject.  "I hope you are more comfortable, now that you are properly settled in the hall."

"Yes, thank you."  It was a luxury to sleep between weathertight walls, lately shared only with a tidy lad who did not snore.  "How, Lady," he ventured to ask the question that had often perplexed him over the ferocious winter, "did you endure gales in that drafty cave?"

She chuckled, proud of her tenacity.  "I kept to my box-bed as much as possible, and set a burning peat on the high rock shelf to preserve my fire."  Sparing a glance for the sun, which stood high overhead, she set down her trug and went to where her packbasket leaned against a particularly stout bush.  "Have you eaten yet?"

"No, Lady."

Glancing back over her shoulder, she gave him a wry look.  "You need not be so formal, Dírmaen.  Or shall I call you 'Ranger'?"

"I would rather," he told her, knowing he sounded stiff and fearing she would think him pompous; but he did not trust himself to take even that small step nearer intimacy.  Not when propriety was one of the frail pales for her protection.  "Even," he allowed, in a feeble attempt at lightness, "if you must call me 'Ranger' in return."

Those keen, sea-grey eyes were baffled, trying to make sense of his strangeness.  "Does my simplicity distress you so much?"

Simplicity?  What was simple about this woman, save her dress?  "No, not distress."  As she waited for more, he knew he had ventured into a mire.  "Not your simplicity.  I am trying," he said desperately, "not to rebuke you for wandering alone."

He was rewarded by a quirk of her generous lips.  "Then please, keep me company," she invited, drawing a cloth bundle and waterskin from the bottom of the large basket.

He had run his head well into the noose.  How could he excuse himself now?  "Truly?"

Saelon settled onto a grassy hummock, her shapely feet, bare as those of any shepherd lass, peeping from beneath her tattered skirt.  "I hope I have not," she said regretfully, "given the impression that I dislike you, Dírmaen.  You have sometimes vexed me, but—" a resigned shrug of her shawled shoulders "—who has not?  You, at least, meant well."

She was magnanimous in victory: having secured her home by the sea, she held no grudge against him for his opposition.  "I did," he affirmed, bowing his head in acknowledgment.  His motives at present he would not vouch for.

"Will you not sit?" she asked, gazing up at him.  "I hope you will be like my brother, and forgive me for not taking your counsel.  I am a peculiar creature," she smiled ruefully, "there is no help for it—but not an ungrateful one."

That smile, touched with melancholy, banished the quiet inner voice that urged him to leave her, and he sank down on a tussock.  "Certainly I will forgive you, Lady."  Though he had no wish to be as her brother, no matter how praiseworthy the man had been.  "I have never known a woman like to you."  Had there ever been her match?  Tar-Ancalimë, perhaps . . . or Tar-Telperien; though either comparison boded ill for his love.  Fearing his eyes might reveal too much, he brought forward his scrip and began rummaging for the hunk of cold mutton and bannock he had thrust in before setting out in the grey light of dawn.

"Who has?" she wondered dryly, bitterness darkening her voice as she unwrapped her own dinner.  Looking from the cloth on her lap, which neatly held two bannocks filled with cheese and cress, to the broken bread on his knee and the meat he was taking from the leather wallet that protected all else from its grease, she murmured, "You have no more?"

She was restraining herself; the line between those dark brows reminded him of Aunt Ailinel when, as a boy, he would try to slip out without his cloak on a fine, frosty morning.  "I need no more."

Those keen, narrowed eyes scalded him as they ran up and down his limbs, assessing him.  "If you were a horse," she said bluntly, "I would give you a generous measure of beans in addition to your usual feed."  Taking one of her bannocks, she held it out to him.  "There is no need to stint yourself, Dírmaen.  We are no longer on the edge of famine, and I would not have it said, when you return to the Chieftain, that I begrudged a Ranger the food to keep him."

"Though you resent that the Chieftain sent no grain to your people."

"All the more reason."

Such pride—it was like the glint of steel.  More apt to give than take, Halpan had said; yet Dírmaen thought her generosity sometimes had a double edge, shaming the recipient . . . and wounding herself.  "I would not have you go short on my account, Lady.  You are none too generous on your own behalf, I know."  Her body was more rounded now than when he had first met her, though she was still thinner than was right.  A wonder that she had not fallen ill that winter, as she labored to nurse the sick.  So light she had been in his hands when they danced.

With difficulty, he shook his mind free from the delightful memory, to find her gazing on him with lowered brows and pursed lips.  As her silence drew out, he cursed himself.  Where were his wits?  Why had he not accepted her gift?  So small a thing—and by refusing, he had reminded her of the root of all their disagreements.  How could he hope to win her, if he guarded his tongue no better than this?

She drew back the bannock . . . and broke it in two.  Offering the half, she said, "Let us not compete in self-denial.  There are so many berries, neither of us need go hungry."

"True!"  His relief was so great he feared his smile was rather foolish, so he filled his mouth with what she offered, to stop his awkward tongue.

She did not speak either as they ate, the warm midday stillness broken only by the calls of plover near a plashy hollow and the cheerful notes of a thrush plundering the berry bushes closer by.  Dírmaen soon regretted starting his meal with Saelon's morsel: the insipid grease of unsalted mutton killed the savoury bite of cress, the mildness of new cheese.  As he wiped his fingers fastidiously on the grass, Saelon shook the few crumbs from her cloth and rose.  Picking up her laden trug, she came and set it down beside him.  "Here," she told him with a knowing smile, "these will take that taste from your mouth."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, taking a handful of the small berries.

Sitting down just the other side of the basket, where she, too, could easily dip into it, she observed, "You did not come here for the blaeberries, then?"

"The hope of venison," he replied promptly, not wanting her to think he dogged her steps from lack of confidence—or other reasons.  "Have you seen any sign of deer today?"

"Mm, venison," she sighed.  "Alas, no; nor yesterday, neither.  Hares and a few grouse as I came across the moor.  When haying is done, I suppose I will have to set the lads to fishing."

Game had indeed become scarce hereabouts.  Tomorrow he would take his horse and ride into the mountains, to the broad, high glen he had found where stags had gathered for summer.  The beasts were putting on flesh quickly; since they were only allowed a score, there had been little point in taking one earlier.  "Why did you come so far to pick these?" he asked as he reached for more, curious.  "The heath north of the river is thick with blaeberries."

"I have left those for Fransag."  Plucking out and discarding a few unripe berries that had slipped in, she explained, "Even if she felt able to walk far yet, she and Tearlag fear to roam.  I enjoy tramping about—"  There was defiance in the glance she gave him.  "—and seeing how the plants fare, so I know where to harvest."

Dírmaen swallowed what came first to his mind with the fruit, and took another handful.  They had disagreed—nay, quarreled—on this but a few months ago, to no avail.  He had found her haggard, and would not tempt her to his hand by insisting on a creance.  "And your niece?  I am surprised you do not take her with you, so she can learn your herblore."

"Her talents lie elsewhere and, save for dyestuffs, she has little interest.  Which is as well," Saelon allowed, picking moodily at her skirts, where even patches had been patched.  "We are in sore need of cloth.  I wonder if flax would flourish here?" she mused.

He had seen her plots of wheat and oats, which fared well.  "You have not already made the trial?"

She shook her head.  "No.  Retting flax is tiresome work.  Urwen used to supply me with linen in return for herbs.  I suppose we will have to trade for it," she sighed.  "At least for this year.  What we have really cannot last much longer.  It is mortifying to look so beggarly!"

"You do not look like a beggar," he assured her.  He had seen beggars, and they did not have such lustrous hair, nor flawless complexions.  There was nothing downfallen in her bright, clear eyes, though his heart ached to see her once more fretted by cares.  Her temper would not be crabbed, he thought, if she were not overburdened.

"Come," she chastised him, arching a suspect brow.  "Do not tell me that, on the road, you would not look twice at someone so ragged."

"Only to see if I knew them," he jested, smiling.  "Many a Ranger has looked worse."  And cast a telling look down at his own gear and garb, hard-used this last year.  "I had thought you above such trifles as dress.  We are all rather shabby, it is true, but that will not be hard to mend now that your folk are secure.  Lady," he insisted, hazarding a touch on her hand at the look of skeptical dissatisfaction on her face, "you have kept them all hale and well.  Do not misjudge that.  A captain who lost no more than one in ten of his men, if so ill-supplied, would be considered a paragon."

"One in ten?"  She sniffed.  "Well, men—they would probably feast on game, and wonder why they grew feeble."

Wary of the turn of her temper, treacherous as the tide, Dírmaen did not linger, but shouldered his bow and took his leave, with thanks for the additions to his meal.  At the crest of the ridge he paused and looked back.  She was at the berry bushes again, refilling her trug, and though he gazed long, she did not pause or falter.

That had not been so bad.  He had not disgraced himself, nor had they disagreed.  How often, he wondered, might he happen across her as they rambled, without arousing suspicion or vexation?

Early though he rose the next morning, Unagh was already at the hearth when he stepped quietly out of the chamber he shared with Gaernath.  He pulled the door to with extra care; not so much for the sake of giving the weary lad a little longer abed as to slip clean away.  Gaernath was a keen hunter, and if he learned Dírmaen was off after a stag, there would have been no keeping him on the hay meadows.

"A fair morning to you," he murmured to Unagh with a smile as she set more bannocks on the griddle.  "Do you have something that might keep a Ranger through a long day?"

"Oh, aye," she replied with an unexpected grin, eyes sharp with curiosity.  Instead of reaching into the basket of bannocks straight off the griddle, she leaned down and came up with a neatly wrapped bundle.  "The Lady says this is for you."

"What is it?" he asked.  Taking it, he turned back the top layer of cloth: bannocks, no, scones from the scent, studded with blaeberries.  Somewhere beneath lay cured cheese and herbed mutton.

"Are you away on a journey?" the cottar lass wondered.

"I am going into the mountains," he admitted.  Was this meant to break his fast as well as for dinner?  Snagging one of the scones, Dírmaen put it in his mouth while he closed the bundle and set it in his scrip.

Unagh looked grave.  "No wonder, then."

Fortunately, the scone kept him from smiling.  Five leagues, perhaps six; a good morning's ride, no more, now that he knew the ways well.  Yet save for the flight here from Srathen Brethil, this girl had probably never been so far in her life.  "My thanks to the Lady," he told her, having made short work of the honey-sweet, cream-rich cake.  Saelon's own baking, he was sure; no wonder the lass was so inquisitive.  Was this a mark of special favor, or merely an extra measure of beans to his feed?

Tasty as it was, he had done nothing to merit a favor, and he did not want the lasses, sensitive to the nuances of love from their meddling in Murdag's affairs, turning their fancies and gossip in other directions.  "I hope," he added, "that I might have your good wishes for my quest . . . and some of your baking, as well?"

"Of course!" Unagh declared, a pleased flush turning her pale cheeks pink as she took the top two bannocks from the basket.  "Fare you well, Dírmaen."

A sweet lass, he reflected as he headed out to the byre-cave to collect his tack, munching on the hot barley bread.  She would have made Aniel a good wife, and doubtless would find another man when her heart had finished grieving him.  Yet how was he to quicken the heart of a woman who looked on a man merely to see if he needed better feeding?

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Notes

**Gentle as Falcon** : From John Skelton's "To Maystres Margaret Hussey": _Mirry Margaret, As mydsomer flowre, Jentill as fawcoun Or hawke of the towre_.  "'Jentill as fawcoun.'  Nothing to do with gentleness, clearly.  Gentility, rather; nobility.  John Skelton's allusion is to the term 'falcon gentle,' usually a synonym for the peregrine" (Cummins, _The Hound and the Hawk: The Art of Medieval Hunting_ , p. 187).

**Bracken** ( _Pteridium aquilinum_ ): a tall (often 6.5 feet or 2m high) fern, which grows on moor and hillsides as well as woodland.  Poisonous to livestock, it is an unwelcome invader of hill pasture, but in the past was widely used for bedding for humans and animals, roof thatch, and as a medicinal plant.

**Trug** : a [shallow, oblong basket](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/22/Sussex_Trug_Basket.JPG) of wooden splints, used to carry fruit, vegetables, or flowers.

**Tar-Ancalimë** : the first Ruling Queen of Númenor.  A proud, willful woman; the ill-match of her parents gave her a distaste for men and marriage.  Her own marriage, made to stave off the ambitions of her cousin, was not happy.  For a time she evaded suitors by living as a simple shepherdess; her future husband met and wooed her then, in the guise of a shepherd.

**Tar-Telperien** : the second Ruling Queen of Númenor, who never wed.

**Scrip** : a small bag or satchel.

**Plover** (golden plover, _Pluvialis apricaria_ ): these birds breed on moorland and bog, then move to coastal mudflats or farmland in late summer.

**Thrush** (song thrush, _Turdus philomelos_ ): the more mundane cousin of the long-lived and magical thrushes of Dale, who have a taste for berries as well as snails.

**Haggard** : originally a female falcon, taken in adult plumage and not (yet) tamed to hand.  Only later did the word take on the meaning of appearing worn and gaunt, as the falcon did before it adjusted to captivity.

**Creance** : a [long line attached to a falcon's jesses](http://www.merlinfalconry.com/images/LillyOnCreance.jpg) or leg-straps, giving it more freedom than a leash and used to train it to return to the falconer's hand.

**Flax** ( _Linum usitatissimum_ ): an annual plant widely grown for fiber and oil, although there are different strains for each purpose.  The process of turning flax into linen is very time-consuming.  The plant must be pulled before the seeds are fully ripe, then retted by soaking in water-filled pits for two to three weeks to rot the outer bark; the decayed stalks are then dragged across a [heckle board](http://www.classactfabrics.com/newsletters/Alverna%20L,%20heckle,%20side%20w%20date.jpg) studded with spikes of various sizes to separate the fiber from the remains of the stem (heckling or hackling); only then can the fiber [be spun](http://www.ydalir.co.uk/crafts/spin/terri3.jpg).  Although retting pits are known from England since the Bronze Age, flax was only introduced into Scotland in the early medieval period, apparently by the Vikings.

**"wonder why they grew feeble"** : wild game is notoriously lean, so much so that it is usually larded with some other fat (such as bacon) in modern cookery.  While lean meat is high in calories and very nutritious, protein requires more calories to metabolize than it provides.  This is why Yukon prospectors who ate snowshoe hares all winter died of starvation, the Inuit (Eskimos) eat blubber in addition to meat, and high-protein diets promote weight loss.


	14. Fault Lines

_We dance round in a ring and suppose,  
_ _But the Secret sits in the middle and knows._

\--Robert Frost, "The Secret Sits"

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Nothing catches the ear like a whisper.  Auð was taking the bolt of twilled green woollen back to the stockroom when she heard low, discontented voices muttering off the rough-finished walls as she approached the branching of the passage.  Halting where she was, she listened, as intently as if the rock had grumbled deep beneath her feet.

Tensions were out of balance in the delf, and though the signs were subtle as yet, that might bode ill.  One must know where the faults lay, for safety's sake.

"—well enough.  A fool's gold is as good as that of the wise, while it lasts.  If he wishes to pour it into this dark scrape, I will take my share."

Siggr.  Auð throttled a growl.  The jointer had rasped her patience wafer-thin this last month, now that they had come to covering the seats he had made; first, by disdaining the durability of leather for the richness of cloth.  Who would they impress with such a display?  They were far off the roads that carried trade, and the nearness of the sea would discourage casual visiting.  She had won her point, yet he continued to argue with her over the hues, obstinately preferring a dark umber that would have gone well with the native basalt but appeared ugly as mud against the pale limestone Nordri had so beautifully set in place.

Sometimes she wondered whether Siggr took greater exception to her presence for propriety's sake, or because Veylin and Rekk—absorbed in their own crafts—would have given him a free hand.  In either case, if it soured his mood so much, he ought to have made his disapproval plain and broke off the contract as soon as he saw her astride a pony beside him.  If he had any grit, he would have; but no—Siggr was one who thought wagging his beard in confidence made him Khazâd.  Veylin was a fool, was he?  Not such a fool as to murmur in corridors what he would not say to one's face.

"You, at least, are getting a set fee."  This was Hodr.  What was he doing here, among the workshops, at this time of day?  He should be two levels beneath the kitchen, delving the ale cellar.  "I am on shares.  Such tales they told, of what came from this mine: copper in abundance, they assured me!  I would not mind sweating through this thrawn stuff if there was a gleam in it somewhere."

"There is not?"

Auð had been quiet, the better to listen; now she grew still as the stone around her.  Discontent was as common in a mansion as cracks in its walls, yet while even the smallest flaw bore watching to see that it did not spread, some faults were more alarming than others.  Siggr and Hodr were ultimately of little account: the jointer would return to the mansion as soon as his commission was completed, and strong backs to shift rock were plentiful and easily replaced.  This more discreet voice, though: this was Skani, her cousin's prentice.

"Not that I have seen," Hodr scoffed.  "Well, a little on this level, where Aðal's workshop lies, but nowhere near what I was led to expect.  Nothing at all from the cutting of those cavernous storerooms.  The stone down there is barren, black and vicious as an orc's heart.  A waste of good labor, if you ask me.  What is here that will ever fill those vaults?"

"You have seen no cinnabar?  No opal?"

Glad for her slippers, silent on the granite paving, Auð backed discreetly away.  Her errand could wait.

Why should Skani, who delighted in iron, ask after cinnabar and opal, save that those were the most valuable products that came from this place?  Yet a prentice would get no share in such things—not even Thyrð, Veylin's own.  Skani's master, though . . . .  Vitnir would have an interest in what this delf produced, as Veylin's heir if not as an ironmaster.  If he wished to know its prospects, of course, he ought to ask Veylin.  Why should he set Skani to gossiping with malcontents?

Well; Vitnir ought to ask Veylin, but there was no denying the bond between her brother and their cousins had always been dutiful rather than close, even when they were all beardlings.  She had always thought Nali's sons fine fellows: not very ingenious, true, but hard workers, with a great fund of sound sense.  Both had been considered well worth having; a maiden brewmistress had torn her beard for Vitr as ostentatiously as his wife.

Since they returned to the mansion after slaying the fiends, Veylin and Vitnir had been punctiliously correct with each other, even cooler than before.  Perhaps Vitnir resented the loss of his elder brother in that vengeance-foray.  Though why he should, when it had been their plain duty—and left him heir apparent—was beyond Auð's understanding.  Certainly his spouse could hardly keep from gloating, now that her son would one day be chieftain, and had celebrated by ordering her whole family new clothes in keeping with their elevated station.

The chieftaincy was none of her business: Thyrnir and Thyrð followed Thalfi, not Veylin, as their father had.  And there were possible benefits to ill-feeling between her brother and his heir, if it led Veylin to leave more of his own wealth to the boys.  But what effect would a falling out have on this place, which would never be anything other than a glorified scrape until more of their people—including women—could be convinced to bring their lives here?  Was it truly so rich as Veylin and Rekk believed?  She had an interest as well, in her own right through her labor, as well as for her sons' sakes.

She had seen the raw opal spread on Veylin's workbench, though she had reason to believe he had mined no more since their arrival.  It might well be that Hodr, an uncouth companion at table and clearly indiscreet as well, had been deliberately set to work in the poorer areas of the delf, so he would leave of his own accord.  Certainly Bersi and his son had not found reasons to depart, which argued that there was copper enough to content them.

Vitnir might be shy of pressing Veylin on matters close to his heart, but Auð—who was the elder, after all?—was not.  There were odd faults here, cross-cutting in unexpected ways, and it left her unsettled in mind.  If her menfolk wished her to remain here, they owed her explanations.  Still, it was a pity Rekk was away.  He had always been overawed by the chieftain's daughter, and getting what she wished to know from him would have been simple.  For all his affection, her brother was less biddable . . . and clever, apt to talk himself out of corners and his challengers into agreement.  Pursing her lips and stroking her bearded chin, Auð considered how best to draw him out.

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"Sit!" Auð said, half invitation and half a mother's thoughtless command, as she went to her wide oaken cabinet, taking a key from the bunch at her belt.  "So, tell me how your newest prentice is doing.  Is he giving satisfaction?"

"What," Veylin countered with affected surprise, "hasn't he told you all himself?"  Settling back into his favorite of her chairs, part of the baggage that had so burdened the ponies on the journey over the mountains, he caressed the worn green leather of the arm.  So shabby it was getting; every time he came to her sitting room, he expected to find that she had recovered it.

His sister gave an indignant snort of mingled annoyance and pride as she opened the left-hand door of the cabinet.  "Thyrð?  He is closer than our father.  He tells me nothing."

Veylin raised his eyebrows.  "Nothing?"  The lad was more circumspect than Thyrnir, but he doubted Thyrð was yet able to resist his mother if she chose to press him.

"Nothing of significance," Auð amended, busying herself with whatever was within the cabinet, hidden by the door panel.  "Tales of scandalous behavior among Men aplenty.  Something of the Lady Saelon's single-mindedness.  A minute description of the jewels worn by Lindon's herald and his horse.  But nothing of why my brother thought it needful to take him off in the middle of the night without a word of farewell, leaving us for three worrisome days behind spell-shut doors and double watches beside them."  She handed him a small crystal cup, half full of topaz-colored liquid.

"Then my newest prentice is giving perfect satisfaction," Veylin assured her, delicately scenting the liquor with a smile.  Auð did not often broach her jealously guarded store of this rare, triple-distilled spirit.  "Do you hope this will loosen my tongue?"

She relocked the iron-bound cabinet and took the seat across from him, cradling a palm-cup of her own.  "At least that it will blunt your cares for a while."

Taking a sip, Veylin felt it burn its way down, kindling a warm glow within.  "Ahh.  What cares are these?"

"Whatever has made you loathe to leave the delf of late."

"Who told you that?" he scoffed.

Auð fixed him with a look of such mother-shrewdness that Veylin knew the quick, unthinking denial had been a blunder.  "Who tends to your clothes, brother?"

"I am not loathe," he declared stoutly, making note of this unsuspected avenue for betrayal.  Such subtle ways women had of divining what took place outside their guarded bowers!  At least it had not been Thyrnir.  "I have simply been unable to get away, save for the visit of courtesy to Maelchon at the blessing of his house.  Aside from overseeing all the new work—and Rekk is not here to do his share," Veylin half-grumbled, "I miss having experienced prentices who could be trusted with the lesser work, including the supervision of their juniors."

In truth, he distracted himself from his lingering anxieties over Gwinnor's interest, threatening as the fleeting shadow of a far-sighted hawk, principally by close attention to the training of his prentices.  Oski had a keen eye for gems and their character, but struggled with the metal of their settings; day after day, his efforts had gone back into the crucible.  From watching and aiding his father, Thyrð had a command of the fundamentals, yet the deeper lore had to be carefully opened to him.  Two such talented youths were a treasure in their own right, a not-inconsiderable consolation for the opal that lay amid the grinding surf until he dared tryst with it.

The might of the Lord of Waters he could face, but he feared the stealth of Elves at his back.  Veylin took another sip of the fiery liquor and regarded his sister closely.  "And you—you feel the need to blunt care as well?  What troubles you, Auð?  Aside," he sighed, with a weary cant to his brow, "from Siggr."

"If his craftsmanship were not so splendid," she rumbled, "he would be insufferable."

Veylin shook his head.  "No amount of skill would excuse his conceit.  I heartily regret granting him the commission.  There has been a sneer in his voice since his boots crossed the threshold.  Yesterday," he confided, to assure Auð she had not been singled out for the jointer's disregard, "he did not scruple to disparage Grani to my face."

"What did he say?" she asked over the lip of her poised cup, avid for details as any woman.

"That Grani's work was crude, fit only for a workshop.  Such nonsense!  Does Aðal look down on Nordri's work?"  Despite the delicate nature of his own craft, Veylin was not one of those who thought the decorative arts more valuable than the utilitarian ones.  All had their place and their beauties.

Auð drank as if to clear a bitter taste from her mouth.  She had been disappointed that Thyrnir had turned to wood rather than gems, he knew.  "You should hear what he says of you."

"What?" Veylin exclaimed, outraged, the pleasant heat of the liquor rising red-hot to his head.  "He has spoken slightingly of me to you?"  This was too much to be borne.  Did Siggr seek to drive her from the delf by undermining her confidence in him, or had the wretch mistaken her sisterly carping for genuine ill-will?  He did not care if the great table was unfinished—Siggr would pack his goods tonight, and be welcome to the ponies that carried him and his gear away on the morrow, in lieu of his final payment.

"Not _to_ me," she admitted.  "Though in the middle of a corridor, where any might have heard.  Such is the man," she said dryly, "who thinks you are a fool."

A fool?  Yes, if he bore him longer.  "Who was he speaking to?"  Perhaps he would have a companion on the road.

"Hodr."

As he had expected.  Veylin set his cup carefully down on the table at hand, and took up his cherrywood stick.

"And Skani."

He set his stick back down.  "Skani?"  What was he doing with such malcontents?  An honest, hard-working prentice, who would soon be ready to leave his master.

His master.  Vitnir.

"Perhaps," Auð said quietly, "you had best take a little more drink."

Veylin recovered his cup and eyed her, displeased.  "How long have you kept this to yourself?"

"I overheard them only this afternoon, "she assured him, with a look of deep reproach.  "Have you quarreled with our cousin?"

For a time, Veylin sipped the warm, earthy liquor, watching his sister watch him.  Had he quarreled with Vitnir?  There had been angry words, yes: months ago, trifling beside the words that had been spoken later that day, sending them to Srathen Brethil . . . and Vitr to his death.  How could he explain their disagreement in a way that would ease her mind?  The ironmaster's lack of imagination, which so frustrated him, reassured her.  "We do not," he said carefully, "agree on the worth of this delf.  Naturally, since there is no good iron to hold his interest, and we are further from his markets than Sulûnduban.  Vitnir would not be here, save he hopes for a share of its wealth."  He had come, forged what fittings and tools they needed, and now he chafed to return to the mansion, where he kept his stores of bar and plate.

That still did not explain Skani conspiring with Siggr and Hodr, and Auð knew it.  "So Vitr's death is not a sore point between you?"

"I have not heard him complain of it," Veylin sighed, "though I doubt it has soothed his heart.  No, the both of them questioned my judgment before we left for Srathen Brethil."

"They thought the riches to be had were not worth the effort?"

"No.  Wherever did you get that notion?" he challenged, with a dismissive chuff.

Auð wound a lock of her beard around a finger, a girlish habit betraying deep uncertainty.  "Hodr complained that the basalt is not yielding what he had been led to expect."

Veylin snorted.  "No, it is not, not down below . . . but you are the one who has ordered those cavernous storerooms."  He shook his head at her with a grave smile.  "Do not worry yourself on that count, Auð.  Even if there is little more here, there are other lodes nearby, metal and gems.  That is why Thekk and I came here, and I why I returned, despite the fiends."  Laying a hand on his crooked knee, he asked soberly, "Do you think I would have brought you here if there were doubts?"

"When do you ever doubt your own judgment?" she grumbled, with a sour look.  "And Thekk was always game for any scheme of yours.  Tell me what Nali's sons found objectionable, so that I may judge for myself."

The eternal complaint of women: they would decide for themselves, but on matters outwith the security of the mansion, they must rely on their menfolk for the knowledge they required.  Yet there were those delicate or difficult concerns, beyond their experience and prone to misunderstanding. . . . .  Not wanting to refuse her, but fearing she would take their cousins' part, Veylin muttered, "There were words between us regarding the Men."

"The Men?"  Now it was Auð's turn to be surprised and dismissive.  "How could they be a matter for concern?"

She knew so little of them, and had not been impressed with what she had seen during Saelon's visit.  "They are not.  Vitr and Vitnir did very well by their bargain with them, trading a plow for a share in the crop.  I wish to be on good terms with the Men, as you know, to secure more such trade.  There is little enough now, it is true," he anticipated the objection in the set of her mouth, "but as Nordri has said, they are recovering their fortunes swiftly.  I am looking to the future."

She sighed and shook her head, but did not take up their old argument about the perils of looking ahead instead of where one put one's feet.  "Only time will tell if your hopes are justified, brother.  What did they say—or do—that angered you?  Clip the Men too closely?"

Veylin snorted.  "Hardly.  Vitr accused me of favoring them, because I did not tell him that Saelon had bought out half the crop, then Vitnir scorned them as fools because they repaid more generously than required.  I grant," he rumbled, swirling the last of the liquor, "that gratitude is not to be expected from Men, but sneering when it is given will not encourage them to give it again."  Suspicion, contempt; the Men had repaid them in kind later that day, and it had taken all his wit and wisdom to prevent the alliance from shattering like carelessly beaten steel.  He drained his cup and set it aside.  More recognized the worth of the alloy now, but there were still those among both peoples who clung to doubt and disdain.

"The gratitude of those so poor is worth ill-feeling among kin?"

Including his sister.  "That gratitude was bought with my own, for my life.  More is being traded here than mutton and kettles, Auð."

"So I have gathered," she said dryly.  "What I do not understand is why.  You paid your debt to this Lady—how is it that she can still claim your support?"

"We are allies."  It sounded disingenuous, even in his own ears.

"Against what?" Auð persisted.  "The fiends are slain and Lindon is content, or so you say.  Is there some other danger here, that you would hold the Men in reserve?"

"No," he growled, angered by her dogged doubt of the security of this place.  "None that can be foreseen."  Gwinnor was not truly a danger, not to the delf.  "Yet should I not lay weapons in hoard against unforeseen need?  The world without grows darker; fiends and dragons give no warning before they strike."

Fiery brows rucked with exasperation, she sniffed, "Dragons?  I have not heard that the Men of Dale were much use against Smaug."  Before he could retort, she waved him to silence.  "I take your point, brother . . . though," she grumbled, "I am not convinced.  Is there nothing else you would tell me?"

Wounded by her dissatisfaction, Veylin shook his head.  What could he say, that she would understand?  How could he explain the amiable enmity between himself and the Noldo, or his regard for Saelon?  It had been a mistake to invite the Lady here so they might meet: Auð had not seen beyond the strangeness of a woman of other race and the shabbiness of her dress.  Would things have gone differently if it had been possible to introduce Auð as his sister?  "Only that you are worrying needlessly about Vitnir . . . and my relations with the Lady."  He had caught her sharp, sidelong glance when he told her who he had made the sea-jewel for: an unspeakable suspicion, though apparently not an unthinkable one, even for his sister.

Auð drank the last of her cup.  "What will you do about Siggr and Hodr?"

Trust her to come back to practicalities.  "What would you like me to do?  With Siggr, at any rate.  I will talk to Nordri about Hodr tomorrow."

"I can endure him a while longer," she decided, after grave thought.  "At least let him finish the grand table for the hall and its seats."

"You are sure?"

She nodded.  "What of Skani?"

Veylin picked up his cup and frowned at its emptiness.  "That is a matter for sober thought."

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Notes

**"as ostentatiously as his wife"** : although dwarf-women are few, not all of them take husbands—"some desire none; some desire one that they cannot get, and so will have no other" ( _LoTR_ , Appendix A.III).  Obviously some of the ladies will not cheapen themselves by settling for second best; but I cannot imagine they go down without a fight . . . and being Dwarves, they would surely carry the grudge to their (own) graves.  Dwarven cat-fights—just imagine!

**"triple-distilled spirit"** : yes, this is _uisge-beatha_ , "water of life" (anglicized to "whisky"; the Scots make whisky, the Irish and Americans make whiskey).  Martin Martin, discussing the Isle of Lewis in his _A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland Circa 1695_ , says:

Their plenty of corn was such, as disposed the natives to brew several sorts of liquors, as common usquebaugh, another called trestarig, _id est,_ aquavitæ, three times distilled, which is strong and hot; a third sort is four times distilled, and this by the natives is called usquebaugh-baul, _id est_ , usquebaugh, which at first taste affects all the members of the body: two spoonfuls of this last liquor is a sufficient dose; and if any man exceed this, it would presently stop his breath, and endanger his life.

I do not claim that the Dwarves invented distilling, but they certainly have the craft to make the necessary equipment, the "refining" mindset that would encourage experiments in concentrating spirits, and the constitution to withstand the final product.

**"Grani's work was crude"** : Grani is a carpenter, whose area of expertise is structural work with large timbers (like housebuilding, or the the shoring for mine shafts); Siggr is a joiner, who specializes in joints and lighter, more decorative woodwork.  Hence Veylin's comparison to Aðal, a stonecarver, and Nordri, a mason.


	15. In Confidence

_We could no doubt mistake_  
_These flowers for some answer to that fright_  
_We felt for all creation's sake  
_ _In our dark talk last night._

\--Richard Purdy Wilbur, "In the Field"

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In such weather, it was a pleasure to sit with a cool stream running over bare feet, slopping water about in a pan.  Veylin preferred to take gems straight from their native stone, whole and glittering, but it was good for the lads to try their hands at washing gravel, and gave valuable clues to what lay upstream, hidden under moss and till.  Oski had caught the knack quickly, the swirl that spilled the lighter fraction, and now he was peering closely at a large pebble, angling it in the strong light of the westering sun.

Veylin left him to make his own judgment, picking another garnet from the dark flecks in the bottom of his pan and dropping it into the pouch at his belt.  They had perhaps a handful already between them.  So small and battered, they were of little value as gems, yet they would provide good lessons for his prentices as they polished them into beads or cut the larger to make inlays, teaching them to get the most from what the earth gave.

And, should Gwinnor be spying on them, he was welcome to take his share when they had gone.  Perhaps the Noldo would grow weary of such meager pickings, and give over his watch . . . if he was watching.

Oski was still studying the pebble.  "What have you got?" Veylin asked genially.

"A rain-stone," the Longbeard replied.  "Unflawed, I think."

"It is often hard to tell, when they are rough."  Veylin laid aside his pan and stumped carefully across the cobbles of the streambed.  "May I see?"

His prentice hesitated, the natural reluctance of a true lover of gems, then handed it over.  Veylin bent and dipped it in the water, to see beneath the battered surface.  It was a pale blue-grey, clearer than the water it had come from, and large as a thumb-joint.  "Very fine," he judged.  "Thyrð!  Come and see what you ought to be finding!"

Bounding down from the slight rise that gave him a view of the land about—even if his fears of Gwinnor were groundless, the discontented Ranger roamed widely—his nephew halted beside him, gazing on the stone with keen envy.  "Is it a topaz?" he asked.

Veylin passed it to him, stifling a smile at Oski's narrowed gaze.  A bit of rivalry between one's prentices was a good thing, inspiring greater effort.  "No, a rain-stone: near kin to topaz, but blue-grey as distant mountains rather than golden-brown.  Many Elves admire their likeness to water, and will pay good prices for them."  Looking back at Oski, he said, "If you do not wish to keep it for yourself, you might seek a buyer in Mithlond, when we go south in the autumn."

The sun gleamed on the Longbeard's golden hair as he bowed his head in appreciative acknowledgement.  Many masters took all their students found, but Veylin followed his own in making an exception for the occasional stone of quality.  He still cherished the first beryl of good size he had ever found: it was hard to let such beautiful things go, and closed the heart.  Being granted some share of the treasure whetted rather than blunted youth's keenness.  "I will see how it looks when it has been polished before I decide."

Veylin chuckled.  "That would be wise."  Turning back to Thyrð, he asked, "Do you feel how it is heavier than quartz?  That is the best way to distinguish the more precious gems, when they have been rolled to pebbles."

After weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, Thyrð nodded and gave it back to Oski.  "Are there more, do you think?" he wondered, gazing hungrily at the small gravel bar his fellow had been working.

"Get your pan and take another turn!" Veylin urged, feeling the thrill himself.  They would have to come back tomorrow and explore the banks upstream.  If pegmatite cropped out along the stream's course, there might be some grand rain-stones—and other things.  He would wash one more pan, then go up and take Thyrð's place on watch, where he could consider the shape of the land.

Then Oski found a second, smaller rain-stone, more grey than blue, almost gloating over his luck.  Veylin stepped over to dip his pan near where the Longbeard squatted: once, twice, a third time.  They were all three intent on the stones before them, the low skirling chatter of pebbles on metal stilled, when he heard the soft clack of stone on stone from the bank above.  Heart leaping, he looked sharply up and around—

—and saw Saelon halt at the crest of the bank, a blank look of startlement on her face, which quickly turned to consternation.  "Your pardon, Masters," she murmured, hastily turning to retreat.

"Saelon, wait!" Veylin called, lurching to his feet.  "Keep at your work," he brusquely told his prentices, who stared, appalled, between him and the fleeing woman, then limped after her.

She had gone no further than the other side of the rise, where she could see nothing . . . nothing more.  "I did not know—" she began, low and earnest, an anxious look on her face.

"How should you?" Veylin dismissed.  She was wearing her great basket; she, too, was prospecting.  "Yet I can trust you not to speak of this?"

"Of course."

They stood and regarded each other in awkward silence, though Saelon still seemed poised to flee.  "You look well," Veylin muttered, not wanting her to think he was angry with her.  With himself, yes: it was his fault they had been found at work, neglecting the watch as he indulged his greed for discovery, so long starved.  Still, fortune was with them, that it was Saelon and not another.

She did look well; as well as he had ever seen her.  Two years it would be next month since fate brought them together, yet she looked much as she had when he woke and found himself in her cave.  Save for her present unease, the kindly summer had smoothed many of the lines her late tribulations had graven in her sun-bronzed face.  She was lean, yes, but no longer thin.

"And you."

Veylin was glad the sun had reddened his skin, hiding his flush of mortification as he remembered what state he was in, stripped against heat and wet, wearing no more than a thin shirt and trews, and those turned up as high as could be.  When suspicions were abroad, among her folk and his . . . .

Saelon was looking at the pale relief of scar on his bare shin, lips pursed.

Naked, indeed; yet it was her handiwork.  She had some right to look on it, though it was all he could do to stand under her acute gaze and not cover the shame of his lameness.

Foolishness.  What had she not seen, when she had tended him?  She stared for a few moments only, though it seemed long, and when her eyes came back to his face, he braced himself for whatever she might ask.

"I was not able to thank you properly for the wheat and oat seed," she said, "when you slipped them to me, nor since."

Heart swelling with relief, Veylin chuffed expansively, waving her gratitude away.  Was that a shade of amusement in her knowing, sea-colored eyes?  "A trifle, particularly if your refreshments will be improved thereby.  How do the plants fare?"  Her delicacy was a balm, the more so now that Auð worried at him.

"Very well, so far."  After some consideration, she took off her laden packbasket and sank down onto the green turf.  "I have great hopes for the plots."  No doubt she had tramped a weary way that day.  She must have, if she was turning home with the sun.

"And the barley?  Is it as excellent as last year?"

Saelon laughed.  "Not quite so bountiful, not even in the newly ploughed land.  The summer—" she cast a quick squint up towards the relentless sun "—has been a trifle too fair.  A few more rainclouds would have been welcome.  We made a prodigious harvest of berries, however, both brambleberries and blaeberries.  If Bersa would welcome some, tell him to come and make me an offer."

"I think he would," Veylin grinned, "but do not look for him.  You will only get him on a pony so long if you tempt him with another feast."

"Then he will have to wait until we harvest," Saelon declared.

"When will that be?"  He sat as well, laying his game leg across the pleasant warmth of a dark, sun-heated rock.

"Mid-Ivanneth, perhaps a little earlier if the weather stays so dry.  Will Rekk have returned by then?" she asked, pulling her basket to her and unfastening its cover.  "Halpan was sorry not to see him in Lothron, before going east, and if he takes our rent to Lindon before Rekk returns, it may be long before we all meet again."

"I do not know.  The Hobbits will want the mill running by harvest, of course, yet if they are pleased with his work, he is unlikely to hasten home.  No one," Veylin assured her, "is more devoted to food than Shire-folk, not even Bersa.  And they brew excellent beer in Stock."

Saelon offered him her waterskin and, when he waved it off, gave a slight sniff, lifting one dark brow.  "Mine will be better," she assured him, "now that Fransag has her own hearth, and is not always peering over my shoulder."

As she drank, Veylin arched his own brows in return.  The savour of her hospitality had never quite met the standard of the grand meal she had set before that small company of ill-tempered, grieving Dwarves two years ago . . . but he had imagined it blunted by want, not a desire to guard the secrets of her art.  How Dwarvish!  "And is Fransag content, at the hearth she so fiercely insisted must lie in the middle of her floor?"

From Saelon's smile, he saw there was no real ill-will between the women.  "Very.  She gave Maelchon another daughter in Nórui, and is glad Grani and Thyrnir managed the fourth couple of crucks."

"How many daughters have they?"  A girl-child was an omen of prosperity among Dwarves, a sign of special blessing.

"Three, and four sons."

Veylin shook his head at the fecundity of Men.  "Give them my good wishes, and I will pass their appreciation on to Grani.  Have you any other news?"

"Muirne and Artan have a second son, as fair and bonny as the first.  Hanadan thought to take eggs from the seabirds that nest near the tower ruin, and came near to dashing his brains out on the rocks below."

He gave a low laugh at her exasperation.  "He will be a dauntless warrior, Lady."

"If he lives so long."

"And your other young kinsman?" he asked, to steer her from vexation.  "Have Gaernath's fortunes turned?"  In Gwirith, when the fiery-haired lad had sought to see his rival off, downy beard bristling, he had seemed to be on a firm footing; yet in Lothron, his losses in ground and confidence had surprised Veylin.

Saelon sighed.  "No.  We will probably celebrate Leod's wedding at the harvest festival.  Dírmaen is being very good to Gaernath, taking him on long hunts into the mountains, seeking the wolf-pelts we need for our rent, and teaching him the lore of the wildlands."  A better occupation for a lad so young than courting, to Veylin's mind; yet Men were short-lived.  "And you?" she prompted.  "How do your folk fare?"

"Well," he replied heartily.  "We have delved a new level and expanded the workshops.  The hall looks splendid, now that Nordri has finished facing it with the limestone from your cliffs, and the new furnishings are nearly complete.  I have been spending most of my time teaching my prentices," he said, pointing back towards the stream with his beard.  "Losing Vestri and then Arðri has left me without any skilled assistants.  These two have talent, but need training."

"I envy you, that your nephew wishes to learn your lore," she said, a little wistfully.  "I should be passing mine on, but Rian's talents lay elsewhere and none of the other lasses care for more than the most basic simples and what might please a man's stomach.  Dírmaen would be happier as well, for then I would not wander alone.  Although," a wry smile flitted across her face, "perhaps it was as well that I was alone, today."

Veylin shrugged as if careless.  "It is no great matter.  If it were, you would not have caught us unawares.  Here, see—"  Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a few of the garnets and showed them on his palm.  They were of so little value, what was the harm?  "These are garnets, or wine-stones.  Such small ones are not uncommon hereabouts."

She gazed on them with friendly interest, but nothing more.  "They do have a lovely color, compared to common pebbles.  What can you use them for?"

A great laugh escaped him.  "And folk say Dwarves think of naught but the utility of things!"  So she had spoken of the beautiful whorl of violet nacre she had brought from the strand soon after they met, storm-wrack admired but not valued . . . which was why it now sat in a niche of his workbench.

Smiling, she asked, "If I look on blossoms and think mainly of their uses, how should I be moved by stone?"

"Do you have any interest in stone, Saelon, beyond roof and quern and whetstone?"

"A little," she maintained.  "Insofar as some plants favor certain kinds.  The orchid I used to cleanse your wounded shoulder, cowslips, and purging flax grow only where the soil is sweet, near the pale stone of the cliffs.  Then there are crottles that favor dykes."

His heart froze within his breast.  "Favor what?" he asked, praying he had misheard.  He had never said anything of dykes to her.

"Dykes.  Is that the right word?" she asked, frowning a little.  "The scars of the earth, like the footings of dark walls."

"Yes, that is the word," Veylin agreed.  "Where did you learn it?"  Scars of the earth: as a healer, she might see them so.  Yet who had told her of their nature?

Saelon hesitated, having caught his change of mood.  "Gwinnor."

Who else?  "How did you come to such a topic?"  He could see, clear in memory's eye, her striding north along the coast, the Noldo and Ranger trailing behind, as if leading them to his opal dyke.  Had she?  He had not dared go there since; perhaps it had already been plundered.

She stared at him as if baffled, even dismayed, by his sudden coldness.  "South of Habad-e-Mindon—" she gestured that way "—there is one so broad and high I have always wondered if it were a wall.  I thought he would know who built it, and he corrected me."

South of White Cliffs, not north.  His heart began to beat again.  Yes; her curiosity about the relics of the Elder Days he knew.  Of course she would have questioned the Elf about such things.  "How far south?"  He had not yet explored beyond White Cliffs: it was too difficult to pass without being seen, by roving children if not the Ranger.  It might be that Gwinnor had found something to occupy him elsewhere.

Given the richness of the dykes to the north, it might be worth the trouble of visiting this one in the south.  Whether Gwinnor was there or not.

"Almost a league beyond the tower hill; it is the next headland.  There are others," she offered, "though not so great, further south still, past the bay with the sea-cave."  As he digested this, Saelon murmured, "You would rather I did not speak of such things with Gwinnor . . . or others?"

Gazing on her subdued and, once more, anxious face, Veylin drew a hand down the russet of his beard and tried to moderate his scowl.  "I would rather."  He had revealed more of his interests to her with those few curt questions than he had meant, or liked.  Dykes, the pattern of the tide . . . holding such clues, who could not find his lode?  Her look of contained dismay confirmed her comprehension.  How could she not have guessed, so shrewd as she was?  Unguarded; doubly unguarded: he had betrayed himself.

"I hope," she hazarded after a time, as if she could bear the silence no longer, "I have not caused you difficulties."

She had; though doubtless no more than he had caused her.  Over-familiar, they all said, his folk as well as hers, and he had dismissed it as ignorance or ill-will.  What danger could there be, when they were so dissimilar and she so disinterested?

He had kept this secret even from his kin, save Thyrnir, and would not have revealed it to him save that his leg had been too weak to risk going alone in those first months.

Saelon gathered up her basket, preparing to rise.

"Stay!" Veylin told her sharply and, seeing her eyes hooded like a wary hawk's, added, "Patience!  Let me think."

She settled again, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap, and waited.

What he had said could not be unsaid; what could he say that would not reveal more?  Yet he must say something.  He could not let her leave, not with this unsettled between them.  She knew too much, and her mood was shifting to something cooler.  Did she think he would be unjust?  That he believed she had spoken lightly or in hopes of gaining the Elf's favor?

No—she was too proud to prattle.  And he was offending her more every moment, leaving her to imagine he doubted her rather than himself.  Getting to his feet—graceless, without his stick—Veylin went to her.  The uncertainty in her set gaze was both wounding and reassuring: doubtless she had heard tales of what Dwarves would do to keep their secrets, though it was well that she took this as gravely as she did.

He sat down again beside her, close enough for confiding talk.  "Elves are always difficult," he muttered.  "As you know all too well.  With Gwinnor, I do not even trust myself."

"Indeed?"  She looked as if she suspected he was humoring her.

"Would I be trifling with . . . pebbles," he slapped his pouch contemptuously, "if I were easy in my mind?  In your wanderings," he asked, lowering his voice further, "have you seen any sign that Gwinnor is still about?  Or has returned?"

She looked at him askance for a moment, then gave a minute shake of her head.  "Yet he is an Elf, and they tread lightly on the land, leaving little trace.  Dírmaen has said nothing of any sign."

Veylin gave a ghost of a snort.  "Would he?"

"To discourage me from rambling unaccompanied?  He would be glad to declare that a stranger was about, for he has spent his other arguments."  After a time, Saelon said quietly, "I would have sent word, if I had heard any rumor of him."

He sighed, feeling more and more like a fool.  The best of the season lost, for fear of shadows; now he had come near slighting the keystone of the alliance he desired.  "Would that not compromise you, Lady?"

"Master," she replied in kind, "I would be in Srathen Brethil now, were it not for you.  I chose the chance of quarrels."

That echo of his words when the Elf and Ranger had her at wits' end between them brought a sour smile to his face: now she was the one who was secure, and he harried.  "For one who wishes a retired life, you are singularly adept in contention, Saelon.  Or is it all as naught beside the tumult of the sea?"

When she rose this time, he did not stay her.  "Why you Dwarves mislike it so, I do not understand.  I find your rumble and changeable mood not unlike—which is, no doubt," she shrugged her packbasket into place, "why I find the company of Dwarves congenial."  More gravely, she assured him, "I will keep a closer watch as I go . . . and on my tongue."

"Do you truly?"  Taken aback, he stared up at her.

"Find Dwarves congenial?"

"Find us like the sea."  There was something appalling in that . . . and yet not unflattering.

Saelon paused in consideration before answering.  "To the ear, mainly.  At present," she judged, "you sound as if the wind is setting contrary to the tide."

Opal having taken him to the shore, he knew the sound: the short, muttering chop of water pushed forward and pulled back.  As he was caught between his hopes and his fears.  "Hmph.  And what does that vexing Elf sound like?"

"Despite his name, there is nothing of the sea in him.  He is as the air."

The wind, contrary to the tide.

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Notes

**Till** : the [unsorted sediments](http://www.lter.uaf.edu/synvol/chapter3/glacial_till.jpg) left behind when glaciers melt; also, very descriptively, called boulder clay.

**Rain-stone** : a [blue-grey variety of topaz](http://www.mines.unr.edu/museum/minerals/blue%20topaz.jpg).  A term of my invention.

**Longbeard** : the Longbeards are Durin's Folk, the eldest of the seven kindreds of the Dwarves, somewhat fallen from high estate since the loss of Khazad-dûm in T.A. 1981 and Smaug's destruction of Erebor in 2770, the latter well within living memory for Dwarves.  Oski's parents were part of the following of Thráin and Thorin, who took refuge in the Ered Luin in 2802.

**Quartz** : one of the most common minerals in the earth's crust, whose many hues and forms provide a range of semi-precious stones: rock crystal, amethyst, cairngorm, citrine, tiger's eye, and others.  These stones are not as dense as more durable and hence valuable gems like diamond, ruby, sapphire, chrysoberyl, topaz, and garnet.  The "heaviness" of these stones is what makes panning an effective method for finding them

**"excellent beer in Stock"** : In _LotR_ , Ch. 4, "A Short Cut to Mushrooms," Pippin says, "I had counted on passing the _Golden Perch_ at Stock before sundown.  The best beer in the Eastfarthing, or used to be."

**Nacre** : mother-of-pearl.  Veylin is thinking of the violet sea-snail ( _Ianthina exiqua_ ) shell Saelon gave him in Chapter 6 of _Rock and Hawk_.

**Purging flax** (also fairy flax, _Linum cathareticum_ ): a medicinal herb used for purging and gynecological complaints.


	16. Heart of the Mountains

_There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality._

\--John Keats, "Letter to John Hamilton Reynolds"

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Dírmaen was putting a final whet on his spear when Teig rode up on his dun hobby, Madamenath's reins in his hand.  "We could not find Môrfast," the bondsman explained as the Ranger frowned to see his own mount saddled, when he had ridden the horse so far yesterday.

"You could not find Môrfast?"  Staring at Teig, who avoided his gaze and licked his lips as nervously as one of his young hounds, Dírmaen straightened up.  That black stallion, near as dear to Saelon's departed brother as his children, was one of the few treasures remaining to these folk.  "You are sure Gaernath has not taken him?"

The man nodded earnestly, then caught himself with a look of growing confusion.  "Yes—I mean no, Gaernath is riding Coll along the cliff-top, to look for him.  He said he would go so far as the Ram, then return."

Dírmaen thrust his whetstone into his pouch and picked up his saddlebags, striding over to Mada.  "Were any others missing?"  At present, the horses were pastured on the narrow plain between the strand and cliff south of the tower hill.  Save for the steep track that led to ridge and hill, there was no path out for horses nearer than the Ram.  With plenty of grass and good water in the pool where a rill fell over the cliff, the herd had showed no interest in roving so far.

Perhaps one of Airil's grandsons had taken the liberty of a gallop; such handsome horseflesh was a temptation to any man.  It was the sort of fool thing Leod might do, daring the Lady's displeasure to deepen Murdag's admiration.

"Not that I saw," was all Teig's answer, as Dírmaen mounted.

Vexing: yesterday he had finally found wolf tracks in the mountains and a den, not long deserted, and had hoped to have their pelts by tomorrow.  Teig was bringing one of Aniel's two surviving veteran hounds and a couple of the more promising youngsters, and Dírmaen had wanted a fresh, battle-trained horse under him.  As the time to take the wolves grew short, he had taken to alternating between Mada and Môrfast.

And now their setting out would be delayed, losing precious hours of the swiftly shortening day.  If Leod or one of the boys had taken the horse for a lark, he would give them a hiding they would not soon forget.

They stopped at the kennels, which lay along the track to the cliff-top, to pick up the hounds, then cantered along the beaten white bridleway.  As they reached the ridge they could see Gaernath riding back, his red hair like a beacon, flaming in the golden morning light.  While they waited for him, Dírmaen dismounted and began scouting the track up from the plain, seeking Môrfast's marks.

It was difficult to make anything out clearly.  There had been no rain for a week, and the ground had baked hard in the late summer sun; they had brought horses up and down every day.  Scuffs and kicked stones were more common than hoofprints, and they might have been left by any beast.  The stallion's hooves could not be mistaken, however: he was the largest in the herd, with a long stride and neat round hooves.

"There was no sign that any of the horses have left by the track near the Ram," Gaernath reported when he joined them.  "And no sight of him, either!"

Looking up at the lad's grave frown, Dírmaen considered.  Gaernath was becoming a good tracker, though even a skilled man might be mistaken on such ground.  "What do you think has happened to him?"

"He must have come up this way and strayed.  We know there are no wolves," Gaernath said, bitingly wry, "and surely he has not been stolen.  By whom?  The Dwarves do not go near a beast so high.  Unless you think he flung himself into the sea, and swam West."

Dírmaen gave a soft snort, not wanting to encourage the lad's newfound taste for bitter humor.  "No, I think you are right.  Yet why would he have strayed?  The mares are all here—" you could see them from where they stood, grazing undisturbed, the foals they carried just enough of a burden to spare them the long journeys into the mountains "—and there is no lack of grass.  Where would he have gone?  We must guess, or we will spend all day going print to print, and making little headway."  The ridge was a bad place to seek tracks, with its tussocks, bare stone, and heather.

Gaernath gazed across the land from the vantage of his mount.  "Not to Habad, or he would have been seen.  Did you speak to Maelchon?" he asked Teig.  "Perhaps Môrfast went visiting."

"I think we would have heard, or one of the boys would be returning him even now," Dírmaen said.  "Though that seems likeliest."  The husbandman kept a horse or two by his house against sudden need, though he did not think any were mares.

"He is not on the nearer moor, or you would have seen him as you came," Gaernath acknowledged the Dúnadan's sharper sight.  "That leaves the oakwood and the hills."

The Ranger turned his gaze to the hills, and the higher peaks beyond.  The stallion had been among them day before last . . . .  Had he seen or scented something—say, a wild pony mare—that had turned his heart back that way, once his feet were rested?  He had balked where the glens came together, stretching his neck out and giving a great cry that echoed off the cliffs, but bone-weary, with night coming on, Dírmaen had pushed him impatiently on.  "Those seem the best places to begin."  Looking over his companions, Dírmaen sighed.  He would be glad when Halpan and, aye, even Partalan, returned.  A half-grown lad and a hesitant houndsman to beat this rough country with.  "Teig, will you take the oakwood?  Gaernath and I will stop by Maelchon's, and if there is no news there, ride up the river to see what can be found."  At least there might be clear tracks along its course.

"Aye.  Should I follow after, if I find naught?"

Dírmaen shook his head.  "No.  Come back here, for he may return of his own will.  If he has not, then tell the Lady that he is astray and we are after him."

Teig did not relish such a charge, but gave a reluctant nod.  "Will you have the hounds?"

They were trained to pay no heed to horses, not hunt them.  "No.  They will be of more use to you in beating the woods."

So they divided, setting out after a quarry other than they had intended.

There was no word at Maelchon's; even the children, such as could be gathered hastily, could tell them nothing, though Uspag gleefully babbled of the black horsie's visit two days ago.  On they went, along the narrow track their frequent journeys had carved into the heather, whose bright bloom was fading . . . autumn was coming, and _yáviérë_.  Why did he labor so, to find the wolf pelts that would secure these people's place by the sea, when he knew the Chieftain wished them across the Lune?  Weary work, that was like to get him thanks from no man—or woman.  Twice more he had dared to meet with Saelon, as if by chance, since that sweet day in Cerveth; always, she was conversable . . . but no more.  Was she blind, or cold?

When her kinsman returned, he might ask, if his hope did not fail him.

Where the ground dipped towards the level of the stream, soft and moist even in this weather, they found their first sign of Môrfast: the prints of three long, easy strides.  Not fresh, nor so deep as to believe he was ridden, yet no older than yesterday.  Dírmaen looked up from where he knelt, sighting along that short stretch of hoofprints.  Yes, the stallion was making for the hills.

Dírmaen led Gaernath with more confidence and greater speed towards the headwaters of the river, pausing only to look for further sign where tracks might have been left.  Gaernath spotted a few hoofprints in a smooth patch of turf, where the stallion had gathered himself to leap a stream coming in from the south; further on, his dung was scattered along the stony ridge bridging a patch of bog.  When they came to where stream and glen branched, they found deep marks where he had stood in the muddy gravels, probably to slake his thirst.

Yet despite long searching, there was no sign which way Môrfast had gone: up the broader northern arm of the valley, the way they had come down the evening before last, which led to the higher peaks beyond; or towards the right, into a treacherous maze of blind corries.  Looking to Gaernath, Dírmaen asked, "Shall we divide?  You take the left, while I go right?"

The lad eyed the northern heights uneasily, shifting his grip on the spear he held.  "Could the wolves have gotten him?"

"No common wolf could take that horse, so long as he could run," the Ranger assured him.  The prints that he had seen yesterday were not those of wargs.  "Do you fear meeting wolves alone?"

That Gaernath considered before answering pleased Dírmaen.  Many an older man, disappointed in love as he was, would have grown reckless, or careless.  Had he learned this deliberation from Saelon?  "No," he decided, glancing at the quiver by his mount's flank.  "There were only a few, were there not?"

Such a grave young face; though it had been beardless when he crossed the fiend-haunted mountains to Srathen Brethil, alone and unarmed.  "No more than three, and perhaps pups."

"Well," the lad declared with studied coolness, preparing to mount, "if our paths do cross, I hope there are at least two."

Dírmaen gave him a knowing shake of his head, but was glad to ride up into the devious hills with an easy heart, on that point at least.  He doubted Gaernath would find the wolves that had so long eluded them, but if they found him, he should do well enough.

Up he went, over heather and stone that gave little hope of tracks.  A sweep of bracken, breast-high on Mada and browning towards autumn, finally gave him what he sought: a path, horse-wide, had been cut through.  At the foot of the high fronds were Môrfast's hoofprints, clear but still not fresh.  The stallion had not tarried on his way.  There must be a mare up here somewhere: a pony strayed from the Dwarves, or one of the larger hill ponies Saelon's folk had kept, cunning enough to escape the fiends and avoid the wolves.  Odd that she had not followed them down to Habad-e-Mindon, if she were alone on these high, rough pastures.  Surely she had heard Môrfast's call.

In a pretty green nook near the head of the topmost corrie, Dírmaen found his quarry.  Aye, it was a mare—but no stubby beast of the hills.  An elegant grey head lifted alongside the black one at his approach; a familiar elegant grey head, though it was bare of gem-studded leather.

Tinnu, Gwinnor's mount.  What was she doing here?  Rising in the stirrups, he hallooed, and the shout echoed from the cliffs above.  Surely the Elf was near enough to hear: the mare did not look as if she had been running wild.  Or were Elvish beasts naturally as sleek as their masters?  No answer; no sight nor sign of Gwinnor.  Well, Dírmaen was in no mood to wait on him.  If he was to reach Habad before night, he must set about catching Môrfast.

That proved more difficult than he had foreseen.  The stallion was not at fault; not especially.  It was the mare.  Dírmaen had found her a touchy, aloof beast on Gwinnor's earlier visit, resentful of familiarity from any save her master.  Now she had a wicked look, as if she guessed he meant to part her from her paramour; and she hindered him in every way she could, short of outright attack: inciting Môrfast to roguish capers, bullying Mada . . . even going for the rope with her teeth.

He lost his temper with all three horses before he finally succeeded in capturing the stallion, a thing he had not done in long years, and his mood was as black as the horse when he finally rode the beast out of the high glen, his gelding on the lead rope.  The sun was so low in the sky that he knew they would not make it to the moor before dark, let alone the seaside cliffs.

And that cursed Elvish steed was shadowing them.  Not close, yet near enough that she was like to cause mischief after dark.

While the horses drank their fill at the fork of the stream, Dírmaen considered their case.  He was in a temper to be unwise, and cloud was pushing in, so that the waxing moon's early light would be dimmed.  This was no land to stumble across in the blind dark.  Sighing, he reconciled himself to a night without supper or roof.

So soft he was getting, to be put out by a Ranger's lot.  A mild summer's eve, with no threat of rain, nor foe worse than that hooved hussy . . . .

A little further down the vale was a tall rowan, and there he halted as the dusk drew in.  Having hobbled the horses and tied Môrfast to the tree for good measure, Dírmaen was just breaking a stand of bracken for a bed when a light, reproachful voice came from the gloaming.  "Heartless man—have you no respect for love?"

Straightening up, he turned to face the Elf.  Gwinnor was clad as a hunter, not so fine as he had been during his embassy to Saelon, and gazed on the stallion's hobbles with distaste.  "Love," Dírmaen scoffed.  "Is that your excuse for making free with your neighbor's stud?"

"I have done nothing," Gwinnor replied, arching a brow at his brusque tone.  "It is Tinnu's affair entirely."

There the grey demon was, having drifted out of her namesake dusk to touch noses with Môrfast, who snuffed eagerly before giving a short buck, squealing in furious frustration at his restraints.

"Aye, nothing."  He came near to asking whether the Elf would have troubled to see the stallion safe home again, after, but managed to shut his mouth.  That was too near an accusation of thievery.  "What brings you to these high hills?"

"My visit this spring recalled the beauties of this land to my mind," Gwinnor replied, with the pointed courtesy of a man who need not reply, but did for friendship's sake.  "I have spent the summer in the northern Ered Luin, and am heading homeward.  Finding your stallion with Tinnu this morning, tarrying was no hardship."  Gesturing at the still-protesting horse, he asked, "Will you not release the fellow?  He seems a good creature—he must be, for Tinnu to stray after him as she has—and has surely done nothing to deserve such cruelty.  You may have me as surety, for Tinnu will remain near me, and I doubt he will go far from her."

Did Gwinnor think he liked to hobble beasts so tightly?  "You will come down to Habad-e-Mindon?"

"Gladly, if I am not unwelcome."

Would the Elf be unwelcome?  Saelon and Maelchon were not fond of him, though they would not turn away the one who had granted them their holding.  Dírmaen decided to let Gwinnor make what he might of him releasing Môrfast from bondage.

He was turning back to his bracken bed when the Elf asked, "Have you supped?"

Casting a sour glance over his shoulder, Dírmaen told him curtly, "No.  I would have been home ere now, save for your witch of a mare."

"Ah."  Something suspiciously like a smile quirked Gwinnor's mouth, though it was too dim to be certain.  "Then I hope you will allow me to make such amends as I can.  I have some fine birds here," he declared, holding up a string of plump grouse.  "Enough to share.  Will you have one or two?"

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"What is this?" Gwinnor asked with interest as the farmhouse came into view, its thatch like a patch of winter bracken in the bright morning.

Dírmaen regarded his companion closely, wondering if he disapproved.  "Maelchon felt his family crowded the hall."

"And struck a bargain with the Dwarves, or so I guess from the preponderance of stonework," Gwinnor finished, smiling broadly.  "I had hoped limiting their timber would delay this, but these Srathen Brethil folk are clever, it seems.  Or did the Dwarves propose the work?"

The two of them rode side by side on Môrfast and Tinnu, who was biddable as a hound to her master.  Dírmaen had wondered how the Elf would retrieve his tack from wherever he had camped, surely near that high corrie, yet he had none, it seemed.  Mada followed readily, the lead rope little more than a formality, though the Ranger preferred to keep some control over his beasts.

"Something of each."  Dírmaen saw the husbandman's older boys come pelting across the dewy grass to meet them, shouting with glee.  "Maelchon was lamenting that he could not build a house for lack of timber, and a Dwarf suggested stone."

"You found him!" Gormal cried.

"Gwinnor!" Guaire called delightedly.

They stopped in the dooryard long enough for Gwinnor to trade greetings with Maelchon and Fransag, complimenting them on their house and new daughter before promising to visit properly later, once they had reassured the Lady that her stallion was safe.  Discovering that they had not broken their fast, Fransag would not let them leave without bannocks in their hands, which repaired Dírmaen's mood enough that he consented to let Gormal join them as groom.  The lad lost no time in clambering up onto Mada's bare back and off they went, his younger brothers jealously running ahead as heralds.

Dírmaen did not think he had ever seen Saelon so caught between expressions as she was when they came into the dooryard before the hall: relief and surprise and anxiety.  He had not thought the Elf would worry her so much, yet maybe she feared he had come with word of Círdan's denial.  "Gwinnor!  Welcome!" she greeted him, the duties of a host winning out.  Why was she frowning at Gormal and looking for another horse?  "I am relieved to see you and Môrfast, Dírmaen, but where is Gaernath?"

The Ranger scanned the cliff-shelf.  Everyone seemed to have come out to see them home, but there was no red head.  "We parted at the fork of the river, midday yesterday.  He has not come home?"

"Not yet."

As he twisted in the saddle to gaze back towards the hills, Gwinnor asked, "He took the northern way?"

"Yes."  Had Gaernath found the wolves?  His horse might simply have pulled up lame: it was a long walk for an injured beast, or a dismounted rider, carrying a saddle.  Yet Gwinnor's eyes were grave as well.  Did he know of the wolves?  If he had been hunting in the mountains, he must have seen some sign of the pack.

After a long moment, Saelon said, with a lightness that rang false, "He is probably buried in his cloak under a bush, stealing a few more hours of sleep.  Come and refresh yourselves, gentlemen.  If he is not here by dinner, then we will think of searching for him."

Dírmaen was devouring a third fish, hot off the griddle, wondering which horse he should ride for yet another trip into the higher hills, when Gwinnor asked, "Might I ride with you?"

"You would be very welcome," Dírmaen declared.  He put a hand over his cup as Saelon went to refill it with ale.  "Enough, thank you."

Saelon had chivvied the cottars out to their work, and the lasses were with Rian, leaving her to serve the pair of them, at board in the cool dimness of the hall.  She drew back the stoup.  "You said you had found wolf-spoor.  Was it in the north?"

Of all her surviving kin, Gaernath was perhaps the dearest to her; more than Hanadan, Dírmaen believed, though the lad was not even Dúnedain.  He filled his mouth with fish and nodded mutely.  Could he do nothing for her that did not take an ill turn?

"Do you think so poorly of Gaernath," Saelon's voice was chilly, "that you suspect he is already in a wolf's belly, or is there something else in the hills you have not told me of?"  Her stare, thankfully, was fixed on the Elf, who looked startled by her suspicion and at a loss.

" _I_ have seen nothing in the mountains save birds and beasts," he hastened to assure her, "and I have wandered there all summer.  Still, your kinsman is very young, is he not?"

And that was when the youngest of her kinsmen ran in, almost skipping with excitement, bearing word that Gaernath was coming across the machair, leading his horse.

Shoving back his bench, Dírmaen rose, and the others joined him in striding for the door, to see for themselves.  Airil and his grandsons were already at the lip of the shelf, staring down; as Hanadan had dashed into Saelon's chamber to give Rian the news, the lasses were on their heels . . . save for Murdag, who feigned indifference, lagging behind.

Dírmaen shaded his eyes.  The horse was walking slow but even, as if laden rather than lame; indeed, something large and dark was slung over the saddle.  Had the lad found a stag he could not resist?

Gwinnor laughed and turned to Saelon.  "Pardon me for doubting the young man, Lady.  I assume this was all that was lacking for your rent?"

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Notes

**Hobby** : a small- or medium-sized horse; a soldier's horse.

**Hobbled** : hobbles are rope or leather straps used to restrain horses when stabling or a corral is unavailable, [usually placed on the forefeet](http://dogonlanguages.org/photos/125_02_hobble_front_legs_donkey.Douentza_Jam_tONO_JH.JPG).  The horse can move around to graze, but their stride is so shortened that they can't go so far or fast.  Many thanks to Súlriel for useful bits of horse behavior!


	17. Trade Mission

_That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel._

\--Oliver Goldsmith, _The Vicar of Wakefield_

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Wolves.  Saelon stared at the great shaggy beasts, patched with clotted gore, and her heart sang with relief—and pride.

"Leod," Gaernath said, as sharply offhand as ever his father had been, "come take Coll's head.  He does not like his load."

For a few heartbeats, the cottar lad stared at him with insolent indignation, and Saelon heard Murdag's breath hiss with anger on her chosen's behalf.  Gaernath simply waited, eyes narrowed and bloodied spear in hand . . . until Airil trod pointedly on his grandson's toes, jerking his chin towards the horse, mouth tight-set.

With a chuff and a shrug, Leod stepped forward and took the weary but wild-eyed gelding's bridle, as was his duty.

Gaernath gave his spear to Hanadan, who gazed on it with admiring awe, and hauled the first stiff carcass off the saddle.  "Here, Lady," he proclaimed, with justified consequence, "are the pelts Lindon requires."  He cast it down before her, followed by the second.

The third went rather astray, landing almost at Murdag's feet.  No slip or weariness, that.  The lass started back with an appalled grue, as Gaernath turned pointedly from her with a look of haughty disdain to tell Dírmaen, "There were two more that escaped me, taking the pups."

"You have hounds, do you not?"  Gwinnor gazed on the beasts with satisfaction, Elvish eyes fiercely keen.

"Aye.  Let me have a bite and get a fresh horse, and I will go back with you."

"Teig," Dírmaen called to the houndsman, "will you come, or might we have your horse?"

Hunting-mad, all of them, even the Elf.

"Take him, sir, for Coll is done in, sure.  Get yourself some dinner, lad," Teig told Gaernath, clapping him solidly on the shoulder, "while I bait the horses and hounds.  I'll see to the skinning after.  Leod, get that bloody harness off the poor beast, then take him down to the sea and swim the wolf-stench off him.  Phweu, that saddle is going to take a deal of cleaning!"

Gaernath ate as ravenously as any wolf, fish after fish, as fast as they came off the griddle, paying no heed to Saelon's warnings not to burn his mouth, telling his tale in snatches between.  Dírmaen and Gwinnor followed it as closely as hounds on a scent, their approving attention cream to the lad's cake.

Gwinnor—she had hardly had a moment to consider his sudden appearance.  What had brought him back, and how long had he been in the hills?  He could not be here for the game, though he was clad as a huntsman: as he had said himself, deer and birds were scarce, they having taken so many.  Yet there was more to hunt here than hart and herb . . . and one who knew Dwarves might well seek their mines in the mountains, rather than by the sea.

Perhaps she ought not to dwell overmuch on an Elf in his presence.  Though engrossed in her cousin's shaft-by-thrust description of his maiden wolf-slaying, Gwinnor's gaze kept flicking to her, as if aware of her thought.  When Gaernath finally stopped his mouth with a sticky honey-cake, the Deep Elf turned to her, lips pursed as if choosing his words with care.  "Lady, it has come to my attention that Men might think my mare has been taking . . . liberties with your stallion."  Dírmaen turned a frown on him: for speaking of such things to a woman, or the free use of the beast?  "Do you expect some compensation from me?"

If he thought that was why she looked on him doubtfully, that was all to the good.  "Yes," Saelon allowed, wrenching her mind back to the matter of Môrfast, "it is the custom among Men to command a price for such service as Môrfast has rendered Tinnu.  If we had known there were mares other than our own about, we would have taken care to secure him .  Yet—" she must leave the question of his presence "—since you were generous with us this spring, I do not grudge you a foal of his getting . . . but if you sell it, I should like some part of the price."  Surely that was not unreasonable.

Gwinnor bowed his head, accepting her condition.  "How large a part, Lady?"

She had no idea what was usual.  "Whatever you think is proper.  You know how slender our resources are," she sighed, with a deprecating smile, "and can well judge how we depend on our stock to raise our fortunes."  Indeed, they must find some market for Môrfast's colts; Halpan and Partalan would know what would be best.

"Ah," the Elf said in mild yet knowing reproach, "there you go again, not asking for your due.  Do you hope to get more from me so?  As for raising your fortunes, do you think I was blind to the quarry in the far cliff?  I hope you got a good price from the Dwarves."  He gazed about the hall appreciatively.  "This stone is very fine."

"The agreement was for use of the land, not the right to sell it," Saelon reminded him shortly.  "I told the Dwarves as much, and that they must do as they felt right by Lord Círdan."

Gwinnor laughed and reached for the mead, broached to celebrate Gaernath's blooding.  "You are all of a piece, Lady.  What the Dwarves make of you, I would dearly love to know.  They are not, I hope you know," he warned amiably, "all so honest as friend Veylin . . . and any of them might be led astray by strong temptation."

He seemed to take a positive delight in baiting her.  Drolly, Saelon observed, "I have heard tell of a few Elves who had a like fate."  Had he been tempted here by curiosity and his love of gems, or did he consider himself a guard on Lindon's rights against encroaching Dwarves?  He called Veylin honest; yet he also called him friend, which Veylin denied.  Who had the right of it?

"Indeed.  And which of them was not embrangled with Dwarves?"

Gaernath, understanding little of this and no doubt caring less, rose.  "I will bring the horses to the door."  He drained his cup.  "Will you have Môrfast or Mada, Dírmaen?"

"Mada," the Ranger decided.  "We had best leave Môrfast in the byre-cave for now, lest he grow too fond of certain company."

Gwinnor sighed and shook his head.  "You are a heartless Man.  Tinnu will tire of him soon enough.  Why not let them enjoy each other's company while they may?"

"How long did you think to stay?" Dírmaen asked dryly.

The Elf shrugged, his gaze going to Saelon.  "It is a pleasant country—but I would not outstay my welcome."

She smiled and began clearing the board.  What was she to do with him—and how was she to get word to Veylin, without leading Gwinnor to him?  There was no sending Gaernath this time.  She could go herself, but that would indeed look as if she and Veylin were conspirators.  She needed some excuse to go, and a good one, so she could outface Gwinnor's insinuations; and she needed an escort, or there would be talk of another kind.  Who?  Maelchon would be acceptable, though not entirely proper . . . yet he had never been to Veylin's halls, and Saelon was loathe to reveal them without leave save at dire need.

When Gwinnor left to see to his mare, Dírmaen lingering to finish his mead, Saelon hesitated at the Ranger's shoulder.  He would be a proper escort; he had been in Veylin's halls . . . yet he did not look favorably on her friendship with the Dwarf.  "What is it, Lady?" he asked.

"I have need of you," she said quietly.  "I would be grateful if you would stay back."

His dark brows dipped in puzzlement, and not a little vexation.  "For what?  Can it not wait until we return?  We will be gone three days, no more than four."

"No, it cannot."

He was caught between curiosity and annoyance.  "What am I to tell the others?"

"Whatever you please."

"Will you tell me no more?"

"I would do as you have advised."

Now he was completely baffled, having advised her on so many subjects; but he was not pleased.  "Very well, Lady."

By the time she dared come forth from the hall, Dírmaen stood on the edge of the cliff-shelf, watching Gwinnor and Gaernath ride away.  Saelon went and stood beside him, uneasy in her mind.  Had she been too unsubtle, keeping Dírmaen back?  Would Gwinnor slip from the lad in the wild and turn back again, to see what she was about, or was the call of the hunt too strong?

This must be what Veylin had meant, when he said he did not trust himself where the Elf was concerned.

"For months," Dírmaen's voice was low, "I have labored to find the wolves you needed to remain here by the sea, and now I have lost the pleasure of killing them.  How am I to serve you, Lady?"

He had worn himself almost to gauntness with the work, despite better feeding.  "I require an escort."

His look was cutting.  "To gather your herbs, or bait from the shore?"

"To visit our neighbors.  Bersa was much disappointed by the lack of honey," she told him.  "Now that we have opened the hives, I would trade for linen."  True; it was all true.  She had spoken of doing so to him before.  As Dírmaen frowned, perhaps wondering why this errand could not wait, she prodded, "You have been to their halls, have you not?"

"You do not know the way there?"

"It is not right that I go alone."  He was her harshest critic in such matters; he had no one to blame but himself it if now inconvenienced him.

The Ranger gave a quiet huff.  "No, it is not.  Did you wish to leave now?"  He cast a pointed glance at the sun, nearly overhead.

It would take time to select and pack what she meant to trade; more to ride three leagues up the coast.  And the Elf's sight was long.  "What, and stop the night, uninvited?  No; early tomorrow."

Dírmaen bowed his head in stiff submission.  "Very well, Lady."  Then stalked away to join Teig over the dead wolves.

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That night, Saelon dreamt she lay soft and easy, with a man's bare warmth at her back, his close-muscled arm over her flank.

It had been long since she last had such a dream, so clear; she thought her body had forgotten Necton's touch.  In the dream, there was no bitterness, no regret . . . only the sweet lassitude of love.  He stirred, arm tightening to draw her closer—

Faded tatters now, as all dreams after waking, like the pallid ghosts of last year's leaves.  Yet she could not shake off the sense that the arm had not been Necton's: the hair dark, not fair; a hardened man's rather than youth's.

Saelon cast a discreet, troubled glance at the man riding beside her, once more the dour, silent Ranger who had come with Râdbaran to take them back east.  Not that he had ever been affable: he it was who insisted on "Lady," when most of her folk would call her by name; who upbraided her, by look more often than speech, for what he considered impropriety; who disapproved of her policies and her allies.  At times, she despaired of doing anything that pleased him.

Though lately she had thought he was resigned, if not reconciled, to her ways.  He had honored his agreement with Veylin to speak no more of their leaving and, as the summer went on, grew less censorious and more conversable . . . when he was not in the hills.  He had been so generous with his strength and skill on their behalf.  Could it be that it was not from disinterested nobility, but—?

No.  She should blush to imagine such things.  Her age alone made it ridiculous, even were they not so contrary of mind.  Dírmaen was a very fine man; she would not be sorry if he pled for Rian's hand when she came of age; but she had seen no sign that he admired her.  His eyes were dark and brooding when turned her way, not bright with delight.  Three leagues they had traveled that morning, and not a word from him, sweet or sour.

"Ho!"  A stern Dwarven voice broke her reverie, and Saelon looked sharply up the slope.  There, perched on a great boulder, stood Fram, Bersi's prentice, his carrot-colored hood difficult to see among the browning bracken and his hand on his axe helve.  "Where are you going, Lady?"

"Greetings, Master Fram," she said courteously, for there was a frown in his fawn-brown beard.  "At your service.  To your hall, I hope."  She turned in the saddle to set a hand on one of the burden baskets.  "I have brought honey and other things to trade.  Is Master Bersa at home?"

Fram gave a short bow and took his hand from his weapon.  "At yours and your family's, Lady.  Yes, Bersa is within."  His dubious gaze seemed to linger on Dírmaen.  "Wait here, and I will see if he is at liberty."

"Very well."  Odd; she did not recall a guard set so far from the door before.  Did they already know of Gwinnor's presence?  "My regards to Master Veylin as well, of course."

"Of course."  The Dwarf hopped down from the boulder and began trotting up the hill, but within a furlong she lost sight of him, though cover was scarce.

The wind whispered in the tall grasses; saddle leather creaked, and the horses' teeth tore the green at their feet.  After a time, oppressed by Dírmaen's relentless silence, Saelon contritely offered, "Thank you."

She had begun to fear he would not reply, when, low and brusque, he murmured, "If you meant to keep this place secret from Gwinnor, the effort was wasted."

Saelon met his storm-grey gaze unflinching.  "I have come to trade, as I said."  Had he told the Elf himself?

"And that could not wait a few days?  Duplicity does not become you, Lady."

Her face went so hot the coldness of her voice shocked her.  "Are you saying I am false?"

"I thought," he answered, severe as any lord, "that you prided yourself on forthrightness."

This was too much to be borne.  If she were a man, she would have drawn on him.  "Then let us be honest," she flung furiously back.  "Did you know Gwinnor wandered here?"

Dírmaen's shrug was careless.  "No.  But what matter if he does?  You have acknowledged that this is Elvish land."

"You do not find it strange that he hunts here, after complaining that we have ravaged the game?  Or is in no hurry to depart, after insisting they do not wish to mingle with Men?"

"I do not claim to understand Elves."

"Yet you take his part over mine!"

That, he bridled at.  "In what way, Lady?"

"Did you tell him where the Dwarves dwell?"

"Why should I not?" he demanded.

She gaped at him, aghast.  "Because they are our allies, and do not wish it widely known."

"Why should you pay Lindon to dwell here," Dírmaen's voice was searing, "and Veylin not?"

"Our cases are different!"  Always, this suspicion that Veylin took unwarranted advantage.  "The Dwarves dwelt in these mountains before ever the Elves came, and have rights here.  Gwinnor allowed as much, and I have told you of it.  If Veylin has trespassed," she defied the Ranger, "why does Gwinnor not say so, instead of calling him friend?"

His horse shuffled beneath him, and he looked down towards its hooves.  "You should keep clear of their quarrels," he said with grave sententiousness, "whatever they may be."

"I should repay my friend for his support by standing aside?"  Saelon could not believe what she was hearing.  Did Dírmaen give such craven counsel because Veylin was a Dwarf, rather than a Man, or because she was a woman?

He raised his eyes to hers again with a discomposed frown.  "I doubt his friendship is disinterested, Lady."

"Of course it is not!  He is a Dwarf!  Yet that does not mean it is false—or so Elrohir told me," she sniffed, "if you prefer the word of an Elf over mine."

"Peredhel," Dírmaen muttered.  "The Brethren are half-Elven."

"Friends of the Chieftain, at any rate, and more civil to Veylin than you are—as is Gwinnor!  Such fixed mistrust, without cause, speaks more to your character, Dírmaen, than his.  Or mine!"  Turning her face angrily from him, Saelon glared towards the slope above them . . . and started at the sight of Bersi standing beside his prentice.

As the Ranger's head came around, falcon-swift, the coppersmith bowed very low.  "Welcome, Lady.  Veylin is occupied at present, and could not come to greet you himself, but my brother would be glad to trade with you."

Hoping the sun-struck brownness of her cheeks hid her flush, Saelon bowed her head.  "Thank you, Master Bersi.  I am at your service, I am sure."

"And I at yours."  Was there a particular emphasis in that deep voice?  Bersi was a dear friend of Veylin, she knew.  How much of her tirade had he heard?  Had she said anything untoward in her rage?  "If Dírmaen—a Man of honor, we know," the Dwarf bowed to him as well, but not so deeply, "will but give his solemn oath not to reveal the way into our halls, we can go within."

Saelon stared from Bersi to the Ranger.  "Have I misunderstood?  You have been in their halls, have you not?"

Dírmaen frowned on the Dwarf rather than meet her questioning gaze.  "My word as a Ranger," he offered, with offended dignity.  "I will tell no one the way to your door."

Saelon looked back to Bersi, seeking an answer to her question, but the coppersmith simply gestured up the hill.  "This way."

"You do not require the Lady's word?" Dírmaen asked pointedly.

"We are satisfied with her discretion."  A plain statement of fact, revealing nothing of her two previous visits; and after matching gazes with the Ranger on his tall horse for some breaths, Bersi led them to where the rill, a feeble thread after this dry summer, trickled over the edge of the shelf.

They unloaded her mare and Fram charily took their reins, leading the beasts back down.  Saelon let Dírmaen and Bersi take the small casks of honey through the narrow cleft, carrying the more delicate berries and herbs herself.  There must, she decided, be another way into their halls.  Surely they did not bring all their supplies—or the blocks of stone from the cliff—in through this narrow way!

Once through the wondrous door of stone and having exchanged greetings with Skani, who had the doorwarden's place, Saelon did not find it difficult to gawk as if she had not been here before, for truly, it looked a different place entirely.

The creamy stone they had hauled away rough-cut on their sullen ponies seemed to glow in the lamplight, polished to a gentle sheen.  In the passage, the walls were plain . . . but the hall was breathtaking.  It seemed larger, now that shadows did not mask its noble proportions; the ominous, mysterious dark banished by a brightness familiar from her own hall, set off and mellowed by the black boles of the great pillars.  There were more tables and seats, in strong hues of brown and green, picked out here and there with the gleam of shining metal; against one wall was set a scaffold, from which Aðal gazed down on them, tools in hand.

Saelon bobbed her head in acknowledgement, tearing her eyes from the intricate patterns the carver was sculpting into the stone.  So rich, so handsome a hall—no wonder Veylin was anxious for its security.

"Come to make amends, have you?"  Bersa did not rise from his broad chair as they approached, but eyed the little casks with candid greed.

Beside her, Bersi huffed disapprovingly at his brother's discourtesy, setting the cask he carried on a low table beside another fine, leather-covered seat.  Saelon chuckled and dropped the fat Dwarf a curtsey.  "I have spared you a weary journey, Master.  You will be grateful, I am sure."

"Grateful?"  Bersa's tawny brows bounded upwards as nimbly as any deer.  "I thought you had some acquaintance with Dwarves, Lady."  Turning to his brother, he said, "Step into the kitchen, Bersi, and fetch me a tap, so I can be certain she has not brought me the dregs of her hives.  While you are there," he muttered, "I suppose you ought to pour the Lady a cup of mead . . . and," a final afterthought, "bring along a plate of seed-cake."

Hiking a brow, Bersi rumbled, "I am not your prentice, brother."  Glancing over to where the Ranger stood by the nearest pillar, he asked, "What will you have, Dírmaen?  Wine?  Mead?  Ale?"

Dírmaen bowed his head with stiff formality.  "Wine, thank you."

"What else have you brought me?" Bersa asked, craning his neck to peer at her deep basket.

Saelon carefully drew out her bundles and boxes, laying them on the table.  "This season's bilberries, well-dried, and new brambleberries, on the brier two days past.  Fresh cheese and butter.  Kale and cress.  Sundry herbs for cooking.  The wax that came with the honey."

"Hhmph."  Yet he seemed pleased as he heaved himself to his feet.  "Let me see."

He took his time about it, fingering and sniffing and tasting her produce, so long that she had started a second slice of seed-cake.  Sucking a stray smear of honey from his thick thumb, Bersa settled back into his ample seat.  "What did you want for this, Lady?  Coin?"

"So that I may hand it back to you again?  I would rather have linen, if you can spare any."

"Do I look like a tailor?"

From where he sat, near to Dírmaen, Bersi cleared his throat.  "Auð has some, I am sure."

Auð?  Ah, yes; the silent Dwarf, beard as red as that of Thyrnir and his brother.  Near kin, Rekk had said.  Yet he had never been to Habad, and seemed less genial than even Rekk.

For a moment Bersa looked blank, staring at his brother, then stirred uneasily in his chair, looking from Saelon to Dírmaen and stroking his broad beard as if to soothe himself.  "Will Auð like to be disturbed?"

Bersi shrugged.  "You can ask."

"I?"  Saelon wondered if the fat Dwarf's horror was due to Auð's temper or the effort of the errand.  "It was your idea.  You go."

If Bersa found Auð fearsome, his brother did not.  "Very well," he said, rising readily.

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Notes

**Grue** : Scots, a feeling of horror or revulsion; the twisted expression that accompanies such feelings.

**Bait** : to feed and water an animal, during a break in a journey; akin to "a bite."


	18. Fabric of Society

_If everyone were clothed with integrity, if every heart were just, frank, kindly, the other virtues would be well-nigh useless, since their chief purpose is to make us bear with patience the injustice of our fellows._

\--Moliére, _Le Misanthrope_ V, i

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While his brother was gone, Bersa, strangely subdued, was almost civil, asking after their crops and flocks and gardens, attending with close attention to what Saelon chose to tell him.  She was glad to gain some idea of what he would like—though often it was no more than a hint dropped by the roused gleam in his brown eyes.  He was shaking his head emphatically, refusing to even hear the virtues of carrageen for thickening sauces, when Bersi returned, accompanied by a pair of firebearded Dwarves.

Saelon rose to drop a proper curtsey.  "Greetings, Thyrnir . . . and Auð.  At your service."

"At yours and your family's."  Their voices were as akin as their hair.  "Welcome to our halls, Lady," Thyrnir went on, smiling over the dainties spread on the table.  "I see you have come to tempt Bersa."

"And your kinsman, I hope."  Saelon smiled in her turn on the taciturn Auð.  "For I understand Bersa lacks what I would have in trade."

"Linen, was it?"

Determinedly, Saelon kept the smile on her face.  It was her day to suffer slights, it seemed.  She understood the faintly contemptuous distaste in the brusque Dwarf's eyes: her clothes were fit for little but rags, as least in comparison with the richly colored, whole garments they wore.  "Yes, good stout linen for shirting and summer wear.  My menfolk are hard on their cloth, and two of them are growing like young willows."

Auð stroked his beard.  "Plain or dyed?"

"Plain, if you please.  I am teaching my niece the plants used for dyes."  Plain would be cheaper as well, and she needed as much as she could get.  She and Rian, Halpan and Gaernath and Hanadan; Partalan should have some linen as well.  And where would Dírmaen get any, if she did not supply it?  Could she get as much as fifty ells?  It would depend on how highly they valued the honey.

"I will fetch what I have."  Auð motioned Thyrnir to stay, and left them.

Saelon gazed ruefully at Veylin's nephew.  "I do not think your kinsman likes me."

His look reminded her that they had not agreed well either, to start.  "Auð knows little of Men and finds you strange," he explained.  "Do not be dismayed, for it will not help.  We are mistrustful of the unfamiliar."

Flicking her gaze towards Dírmaen, Saelon allowed, "That is true for some Men, as well."  She had known the Dwarves for two years, now, and since they had stayed with them almost a fortnight while delving their hall, her folk knew them near as well.

Yet Dírmaen, though he had met them little more than a year ago, had also spent many days in the Dwarves' company, on the foray against the _raugs_.  Was it that mistrust bred mistrust?  If he had been within this hall—and he seemed unmoved by its grandeur—but did not know the door, had they brought him in blind?  That might well have galled the Ranger's honor.  It was to be hoped, then, that his temper would now mend, with this gesture of trust.

"How are things with you and your folk?" Thyrnir inquired politely, steering their talk from such uncomfortable ground.  "Is Maelchon content with his house?"

Surely Veylin had passed on the news from their chance meeting . . . though perhaps not.  Or was it that Thyrnir asked to maintain the pretense that they had not met since Lothron, for Dírmaen's sake?

Dírmaen was right; she had become two-faced, falling into this trying double life where she was an intimate of Veylin, and she was not—and must be cunning to maintain both.  How else was she to preserve her friendship with one who prized secrecy, along with her own reputation?  The lack of candor gnawed at her like a canker.  "Oh, very well.  Yes, Maelchon is happy, not least because Fransag is more content.  They have a new daughter, and Muirne bore Artan a second son."

"Has Halpan returned yet?"

"No, but we expect him soon.  He was to be back before harvest, though that may be earlier than usual, the summer having been so hot."

They talked idly of what success her kinsman might have had encouraging folk to return to Srathen Brethil until Auð rejoined them, bearing three bolts of cloth, carefully jacketed in some tight, coarse weave against dirt and wear.  "Thyrnir," Auð ordered, "bring that table over here," and pointed to the one he desired with his bearded chin.

Thyrnir promptly complied, then relieved him of his burden, laying the bolts on the table as Auð fetched a lamp to set beside them.  When Auð had stripped the bolts of their covers, he stepped back, inviting Saelon to examine his wares with a gesture.

All were plainweaves, though of varying quality: one coarse, with flecks of boon in the threads; one middling, the threads thick but tightly woven, that would take hard wear; and one finer, a pale grey that would bleach readily in the sun.  Fingering the coarsest to judge how harsh it would be on the skin, Saelon considered how best to open the bargaining, since Auð had not.  Indeed, the grey-clad Dwarf seemed to have little interest in the proceedings: he had watched her handle the cloth with more attention than he had given what she had brought to trade, though sparing many a glance for the cook, who appeared less uneasy.

"I would like some of each," Saelon began, as much as she would have liked to spurn the coarsest.  Yet it ought to be cheap, and would do for Hanadan and Partalan.  "Two parts fine, two parts middling, and one part of the coarse.  How many ells will you give me for what I have brought?"

Pursing his lips and stroking his flame-bright beard, Auð calculated.  "Four and a half ells a part, twenty-two and a half in all."

"That is very dear!" Saelon exclaimed, so great was her surprise.  That was less than half of what she would require!

"It has passed through many hands before it reached me," Auð answered coolly.  "Each adds to its price."

Schooling her demeanor, Saelon allowed, "I had not considered that.  I am used to trading with the women who weave it."  She kept herself from biting her lip, for she had given too much away already.  "Well then, and if it were one part fine, two parts middling, and four parts coarse?"

"Five ells a part."

One less than three dozen: even if Rian patched out the fine with the middling, there would not be underdresses for both of them; barely enough coarse to clothe her own kinsmen.  Was Auð taking advantage of her obvious need?  Impossible to tell, from that faintly condescending, bearded face.  Thyrnir had gone over to talk quietly with Dírmaen and Bersi; Bersa looked immensely content, but perhaps that was because he had found another dollop of stray honey.

Whether the cloth was truly that costly among Dwarves or Auð drove a hard bargain mattered little—either way, it was foolish to part with so much for so little.  They could make do with less: winter, the season of woolens, was coming; and who was there to be vain for, who had not already seen them ragged?

"Then," Saelon said decisively, "I will take eight ells of the middling, and twenty of the coarse."  Stepping to the table before Bersa, she picked up one of the casks of honey.  "That will do for now—" she set the cask back in her basket "—and we can get our summer linen when we trade one of the colts in the spring."

Auð's "Very well" was nearly drowned out by a cry of heartrent protest from Bersa, who had gaped like a fish as she took back half the honey.  "What is this, Lady?  You cannot mean to take it back!"  Yet he glared at Auð, rather than her.  "You have already cheated me of honey once!"

"Master Bersa!"  Saelon usually did not mind his chaffing discourtesy, having divined that he had more cry than wool, but such an accusation was beyond rudeness . . . and she was bitterly disappointed.  "That is untrue."

"Make an offer yourself, then," Auð told the cook with a scornful shrug.

"She will not take coin!"

"Will not take coin?"  The red-bearded Dwarf stared as if she had sprouted a third arm.

"I never said so," Saelon protested, reproachful.  "I said I would rather have linen.  If, however, " she looked at Auð, wondering if it would make a difference, "you will tell me the price of the cloth, I will consider it."

"You do not know the price of cloth?"

She must not lose her temper, no matter how trying these two were, for she had not yet left word of Gwinnor for Veylin.  "I know the value my folk place on it, but we did not use coin for such trifles in Srathen Brethil."

"Trifles?"  Auð pondered this for a time, as Bersa fidgeted in anxious agitation.  "May I ask how much you thought to get?"

Saelon did not rush to answer, trying to fathom why he wished to know.  Not to ease his terms, of that she was sure.  Seeing no harm, she admitted, "Fifty ells."

"For this?"  It was Auð's turn to sound surprised.  "Where do you usually get your linen, Lady?"

Ah; he was seeking a cheaper supply himself.  "From my kinswomen in Srathen Brethil."

Auð made a noise between a grunt and a sigh, casting a stern look at Bersa.  "What will you give for the other cask of honey?  A silver penny will buy four ells of the rough linen, and two of the thick."

The cook eyed her with disgruntled speculation.  "Six pennies."

Six pennies!  The only time she had seen so many was in her grandmother's ancient iron casket, the one with the cunning key . . . which she had left her brother in return for the pony and gear she had taken from Srathen Brethil.  A great fortune it had seemed, and it took an effort now to force her mind from the glamour of such wealth and figure how much cloth it could bring.  Saelon figured it twice, to be sure, before gathering the resolution to gravely shake her head.  "That is no better than before, Master."

Bersa huffed, shifting in his broad seat.  "You have a high opinion of your wares, Lady.  Well, for the friendship between our folk, I will stretch to seven."

That was four more ells at most, not even a shirt for short Partalan, linen being so narrow.  Stealing a glance at Auð, who did not seem to think well of his fat fellow, Saelon found no sign of whether the offer was fair; save for the brightness of their eyes, Dwarves were impassive when they looked on the bargaining of others.  If she used the silver to purchase the coarsest linen, there would be enough to clothe them all . . . but she could not bring herself to spend so much on such poor cloth.  "You seem to think well of the honey, at least.  I am sorry, Master, but it is simply a matter of the quality of the cloth it would afford.  I would rather clothe us in the woolen we can weave ourselves and keep the honey against greater need, if it will not provide enough decent linen for myself as well as Rian and Halpan."

"Why will it not?" Bersa growled, frowning much as her father's sister used to when she cut a piece ill and wasted cloth.

"You may have observed, Master," Saelon said dryly, "that my kin are very tall."

Even Auð could not resist snorting at that, and Saelon heard, back where the others sat, a low chuckle that must be Veylin's.

"Why I should suffer because you Dúnedain are freakishly high—"

"And," she continued, "I must take thought for Gaernath and Hanadan, as well as Partalan."

"Eight, and I will go no higher!"  The cook's fat face was red with anger, or perhaps mortification.  "If that is not enough, you will have to do without."

Eight ells of middling and twenty of coarse from the barter; if she used most of the coin for the middling—and Rian cut carefully—she and Rian could have passable dresses, and Halpan a decent shirt, with enough of the coarse for the others.  Dírmaen would have to take coarse, but that would be better than nothing.  "Done.  We will make do with that."

Rumbling and muttering like a pot on the boil, Bersa reached for the pouch at his belt and brought out a handful of coin.  Very deliberately, he counted out eight pennies, one at a time, then shoved them across the table towards her and held out his thick hand.  "The honey."

Saelon stooped to retrieve it from the burden basket and set it in his grasp.  "I am sure you will enjoy it, Master."

He hurrumphed, eyeing her almost evilly, then called sharply, "Thyrnir—take all this into the kitchen."  Rising with ponderous dignity, he took a keg of honey under each arm and stumped back to his lair.

"Lady," Thyrnir asked when he came forward, an amused smile quirking his whiskers, "may I borrow your basket briefly?"

"Certainly."

As he repacked the goods, Auð asked, "How much of which shall you take?"

Picking up the pennies—the silver was weighty in the hand, beguilingly bright—Saelon considered one last time.  "Fifteen ells of the middling and two of the coarse.  That should come to twenty-three and twenty-two, in all."

"My reckoning is the same."  Auð rewrapped the bolt of fine linen and brought out a pair of shears.  "Why do you not weave linen, as well as wool?" he asked, as he began to measure out the better of what remained.

Saelon was surprised to feel something like a pang of regret as she laid the coin down.  "We need such land as we have ploughed to feed ourselves, while there is no lack of pasture.  Nor can we yet spare the labor to ret and scutch flax."

Veylin came over to join them.  "Wait until Maelchon's lads can plough a good furrow, and his lasses spin," he told Auð with a knowing smile.  "Then you, too, may desire more trade with Saelon and her folk."

"Perhaps."

Shaking his head, Veylin gazed genially on Saelon.  "Welcome to Gunduzahar, Lady.  I am glad we can return a little of the hospitality you have given us.  You must excuse me for not attending on you earlier, but my work forbid."

Indeed, he looked no more like a dwarf-lord than he had slopping about in the gravel of the burn, though his sleeves were marked by fire and hot metal rather than mud.  "Thank you for sparing the time to greet me, Master, but as you see, my business was with Bersa."

"The more such business you and your folk have with mine, the better I am pleased," Veylin assured her, with a sketch of a bow.  "How do you all fare, at Habad-e-Mindon?  Has Halpan returned yet?"

"Very well.  No, Halpan has not returned, though we expect him soon.  Gaernath," Saelon told him with double satisfaction, "has slain three wolves single-handedly, so we have all we need for Lindon's rent."

"Excellent!  Single-handedly?  Though I should not be surprised," Veylin demurred, "knowing his valour as I do.  I look forward to hearing the tale in full when next I visit."

Saelon laughed.  "Doubtless you will hear enough to content you.  We will see you and your folk at harvest, will we not?  All are welcome."  She looked at Auð, but the red-bearded Dwarf did not acknowledge the invitation, concentrating on the straightness of his cut.

"I will be there," Veylin assured her heartily, "and many others, I am sure."

"You may count on me," Bersi added.  "Though—" and he smiled "—I will not speak for my brother."

"He would miss an opportunity to redress his loss at my table?"

The coppersmith shook his head, looking near as amused as Veylin.  "I will put it to him so, Lady, if he is reluctant."

"Please do.  Oh," she finally said, striving to sound natural, "I forgot to mention: we have a guest at present."

"Who?" Veylin asked, bushy brows knit in a faint frown of curiosity.

Saelon met his russet eyes.  "Gwinnor has returned."

How little they changed; and how much.  "Has he?  Whatever for?"  Veylin cocked his head.  "There is no difficulty about your agreement with Círdan, I trust."

If not for their conversation near the burn, she would never have imagined he was concerned on his own behalf.  "He did not say so.  Yet he was with us only a few hours before Gaernath came in with his wolves.  Part of the pack had escaped him, and they have gone after them."

Veylin chuffed.  "He is a keen hunter, Lady."  She was trying to decide whether this had a single meaning or a double one when he asked, "Will he stay with you until the harvest feast?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, give him my regards, and tell him that if he would like first choice of this season's garnets, I would be pleased to deal with him at your feast.  Or," he shrugged, "he can wait until I stop in Lindon on my way south, a month from now.  But I cannot guarantee him the first view in that case."

Saelon was in deep enough to feel the undercurrents, but not to read them with certainty.  "I will tell him so, Master.  Thank you," she said, as Thyrnir came up and handed her her basket, having stopped to collect her linen and place it within.  "Until harvest, then."

"Until then.  A safe journey home, Lady, Dírmaen."

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**Ell** : a traditional measure of the length of cloth.  An English ell is 45 inches (1.14 m); a Scottish ell is just over 37 inches (0.94 m).

**Plainweave** : the [most basic weaving pattern](http://www.lockergroup.com/images/content/buyguide/FIG1-PlainWeave.jpg), where the weft (crosswise) threads go alternately over and under the warp (lengthwise) threads.

**Boon** : fragments of flax stem, left in with the fibers due to careless or hasty hackling.

**Penny** : a silver coin worth one-two hundred and fortieth of a pound of silver.  Twelve pennies make a shilling.  For more details, see Coinage in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1).  For those of you who, like Saelon, are taken aback by the relative cost of linen, it should be pointed out that this is why most households spun and wove their own cloth until the early modern period—and why the textile industry was at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution.

**"linen being so narrow"** : in medieval Europe, linen was usually woven in narrower widths (less than 2.5 feet or 0.76 m) than woolen.


	19. Tempest

_Our passions are most like to floods and streams,  
_ _The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb._

\--Sir Walter Ralegh, "Sir Walter Ralegh to the Queen"

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On their way to the Dwarves' halls, Dírmaen's heart had been hot with resentment; now it burned with shame, and he was relieved that Saelon seemed deep in her own thoughts and disinclined to continue the debate Bersi had so mortifyingly interrupted.

Was his mistrust of the Dwarves—of Veylin—unjust?

Like most Rangers, he had some knowledge of Dwarves from the road.  Dour and ready-handed, quick to take offense, they seldom required—or rendered—aid, traveling all but the worst ways in small companies with their strings of pack ponies or stoutly built carts.  They traded news as readily as knives and needles, but were as close regarding their own affairs as any Ranger.  Wise that might be, in these darkening days, though it engendered chary respect rather than amity.  Rangers knew their own charge, the reasons for their secrecy . . . .  What were the hidden purposes of the Dwarves?

Not the protection of what little remained of the realm of Arnor, nor the succor of those in need—so naturally they had doubted the motives of these Dwarves, when word came that they had aided the broken men of Srathen Brethil.  Râdbaran, grown old and high in the Chieftain's counsels by virtue of his shrewdness, had believed Veylin desired to exploit the Men in trade, or confuse the issue of his own residence in Lindon with their presence, if not both.

Who was exploiting whom in trade was unclear, as he had just seen, yet the matter of the Dwarves' presence in Lindon was certainly confused.  Yes, Gwinnor did call Veylin friend and treat him courteously, but Veylin was no more than courteous in return.  Something lay between the Elf and Dwarf; something grave enough that Saelon would make an excuse to visit the Dwarves, so she might tell Veylin of Gwinnor's return.

Why had Gwinnor returned?  Why should it concern Veylin, if he was not trespassing?  Was Saelon privy to some part of the mystery, or was she standing by the Dwarf in blind faith?

When he saw how readily she smiled on the little man, jealousy darkened his sight and gnawed his heart with its poisoned maw.

Mistrust . . . .  She, too, called Veylin friend.  What lay between them?  Branded into his memory was that fraught evening last summer when, before all, Lis shrilly charged that Saelon had lain with the Dwarf, and the folk of Srathen Brethil divided.

No.  The woman had been spiteful, a baited wildcat furiously seeking to wound.  He could not . . . must not . . . imagine Saelon so . . . wanton.

Dírmaen stifled a bitter laugh.  Who could call Saelon wanton?  Every other woman and lass in the place followed Gwinnor with wistful sheep's eyes, even if heavy with another man's child, yet the only heat Saelon showed the comely Elf was her temper.  If her blood were tenderly warm, his hopes would not be so desperate.  Why must he increase his torment with perverse fancies, save to shift the blame for his disappointment elsewhere?

Friendship.  Dírmaen had seen some unlikely comrades in his time, men thrown into hardship together who served each other so well that their differences were of little matter ever after, dear to each other as brothers; sometimes dearer.

When Saelon had told Gwinnor that she had argued much with her brother, the Elf had promptly asked if she debated with Veylin.  And though she denied it, she had not spared Veylin her ill humor when they returned to the hall.  Dírmaen had grown testy with the Dwarf once, and been ruthlessly pinned by the throat; yet Veylin had borne Saelon's anger as a rock bears a wave, letting it break on him and run away to lose itself in the sand.

Was it because she was a woman?  They had women, Gwinnor had declared, who were precious to them; perhaps that was who had taught Veylin his gruff kindness.  Dírmaen would give his horse to know that the dwarf-lord was contentedly wed, with children or grandchildren hidden in his deep halls.  The favor he showed his nephews, however, suggested otherwise.

If he were wise, he would return to regular duty once Halpan and Partalan came back.  There was already far too much territory for the Rangers to cover, without extending this far west.  These folk were well able to fend for themselves and deaf to the Chieftain's wishes.  He was neither needed nor wanted here.

Dírmaen was considering how long passing through the North Downs might delay his reporting to the Chieftain—if Halpan did not tarry, he could be home in time for the harvest festivities—when a cry from Saelon broke his forlorn reverie, as her mare heaved itself up onto the cliff-shelf.

Urging Mada upwards, Dírmaen was in time to see Halpan catch Saelon as she slid from her mount's back.  "You're back!" she exclaimed, embracing him.

"Did you think we would stay east?" Halpan laughed, giving her a buss on the cheek.  "Although with so poor a welcome as we got, with everyone gone—"

Saelon gave a deep sniff, and chuffed.  "A poor welcome . . . . You have been at the mead!"

Her cousin gave her a careless grin and shrug.  "Since it had been broached, Rian saw no harm in consoling us with it.  How have you fared in our absence?  You look well."  Smiling up at him, Halpan jested, "I suppose Dírmaen has kept the larder well stocked."

"And Gaernath, too," she championed her younger kinsman.  "Did they tell you of his wolves?"

"How could I miss the pelts?"

One would have to be blind not to see them, stretched on their frames beneath the shelter of the cliff to cure.  "I'll take him for you," Artan said quietly as the two went eagerly on, coming up with Saelon's mare already in hand.

"Thank you."  Dismounting, Dírmaen gave him the reins.  "Where is Partalan?"

The fair-headed lad grinned and jerked his head towards the hall.  "Within, drinking and spinning yarns."

"Wait!" Saelon called out, as Artan started to lead the horses to the byre-cave.  "My linen!"

Since he was nearest, and tall enough to reach into the baskets without taking them from the mare, Dírmaen retrieved the great bundles of cloth.  "Here you are, Lady," he murmured, setting them in her outstretched arms.

"Thank you," she said.  "And for escorting me, as well."

Dírmaen bowed his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Aye," Halpan agreed, clapping him on the shoulder.  "My thanks as well, for looking after them all.  Not," he added, with a sly sidewise glance at Saelon, "that some of them want looking after."

A hint of rose enriched the brown of her cheek; from her look, Halpan would have gotten a sharp rap if her hands had not been full of cloth.  "No, but I am grateful for the help in looking after the others."  Her gaze sharpened.  "Someone has been looking after you, it seems.  Where did you get that shirt?"

Indeed, the shirt Halpan wore was whole and unpatched, collar and wrists unfrayed.  "A token of our people's support," he told her, then cracked a roguish grin.  "In truth, Partalan's harping was much admired by several lonely widows."

For a moment Saelon stared in bafflement, then rolled her eyes and shook her head in disapproving resignation.  "Then Dírmaen and Gaernath will each get two shirts from this."  She hefted her burden to a more secure position.  "The bull is in better temper, I trust?"

The Dunlending swordsman was in mellower mind than Dírmaen had yet seen . . . though mead had no doubt played a part.  Both men were equally pleased by their summer's progress and to be home after long journeying.  They had found most of the former tenants of Srathen Brethil, and gave Saelon a detailed account of them as she saw to as good a supper as so little warning could afford.  Some had been welcomed by near kin and were of no mind to return; of others there was news of their deaths.  Time had softened the blow, but Dírmaen could see that the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil cherished their people, for even Saelon, who had not lived there for a score of years, knew every family, their condition and number, and grieved for the loss of the least of them.

Two of the freemen and one of the cottars, dissatisfied with the refuges they had found, had agreed to resettle on their former lands in the spring, with five years' remission of rent.  The men would come in time to plough, and their families follow later, if all was well.

After such a terror as had driven them from the valley, it was a good beginning.  Others would follow, if they prospered.  Yet as he listened to Halpan's plans, it became clear to Dírmaen that he intended to spend the better part of the spring and summer in the vale with them, both to assure them of its safety and oversee their work.  Sitting on the bench beside Maelchon after supper, looking out over the sea, the young Dúnadan debated with himself over the merits of dwelling at his brother's hall or Halladan's.

Dírmaen said as little as was polite at such a merry homecoming.  Halpan presumed much, if he believed the Ranger would remain here at Habad-e-Mindon in his stead . . . but Dírmaen was loathe to mar Saelon's happiness as she sat beside her long-absent kinsman..

Tomorrow he would seek her out; tomorrow he would open his heart to her.  He had no hopes of a smile such as now graced her lovely face, but for good or ill, his doubts would be done and his doom known.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

The better part of the morning passed before Dírmaen found an opportunity to speak to her.  Private enough to spare them both shame if it went as ill as his fears threatened; open enough for honor and her security.  Halpan had gone out with Canand to see how the herds had prospered in his absence, and Hanadan with him, but Partalan sat in the sun by the byre-cave, cleaning and mending his hard-used saddle.

He had gone out to meet Orcs with a quieter heart than now beat in his breast.

"What do you think?" Saelon asked cheerfully, drawing the full heads of wheat through her hand as he came to her amid her small plots of grain, where the curve of the little river caught and held the sun at the foot of the far cliff.  "Should we sow a field of this in the spring?  The oats look as promising."

Dírmaen looked at the green fading towards gold: a hopeful sign, or ominous?  "Growing things are your province, Lady, not mine.  Maelchon could advise you better."

She smiled at him, and his resolution wavered.  Ought he to wait a while longer before forcing his fate?  "Maelchon knows little of these crops—did not think they would ripen before the season turned wet."

No.  She was in mild temper, yesterday's quarrels forgot or forgiven; best to take his chance now.  There was no telling when Gwinnor would return, and the Elf unsettled her, sharpening her mood and mind.  "You must do as you think best.  You are usually right."  Such a craven he had become!  "Saelon—"

So still, like a hare under the shadow of an eagle's wings.

"—have you not seen that I love you?"

She had not.  Stricken, she looked, as if the talons had taken her.

He thought he had no hope until he felt it die.  Turning from those wide, astonished eyes, barren as the sea, he found himself unable to say the clever things he had imagined, that would make light of his pain and ease her conscience.  How could she be so blind, save that she did not wish to see?

"Why should I look for such things!" she cried, before he took his third step.  "Do you think me a green girl?  You are twenty years too late—thirty!"

Surely not so much: she was Dúnedain, descended of kings, yet her dark hair was still untouched by frost, despite grievous afflictions.  "My heart does not reckon such things," he confessed, voice low.

"Your heart?" she flung back.  "Is that what prompts you to censure me?  We do not even agree!"

He bowed his head, unable to defend himself on such a charge.

"Do you think to become lord over me with such talk?  Lord of Srathen Brethil?"

"No!"  Never: she was merely regent for her brother's son; and who could hope to rule her, when she was undaunted by one who had dwelt among the Powers?  "I only wish to be a help to you, to lighten the burdens you bear.  But you spurn aid and counsel, and cleave to your hard way—so that," he had stumbled into the same slough again, "all I do is anger you."

He could not bear the keenness of her eyes.

"Forgive me, Lady."  He swallowed his bitterness as best he could.  "I never meant to vex you."  It sounded absurd, even to his ears.  How could he have deluded himself this way?  "You do not need me, and have no doubt long been wishing the Ranger gone.  I will—"

"Everyone vexes me!" she broke in.  "Why do you think I had rather dwell alone?"

That was no improvement.  "I would take them all from here, Lady, but you will not hear of it."

"If only it were so simple."  She gazed at him, mouth crooked in dissatisfaction, while the grain tossed in gentle billows between them.  "I am sorry."

Wanting to hear it plain, he said flatly, "You do not care for me."

"Do not look at me so!" Saelon snapped.  "I do not despise you.  What more do you want?  I put love from my mind long ago.  Did you think I would fall into your arms in melting gratitude?"

"No."  He felt graceless as Gaernath; if he scuffed the ground, he would complete his humiliation.  What had he expected?  Nothing of substance: his wits were astray among fantasies either torrid or bleak, where loneliness and lust goaded each other to excess.  Like a callow lad or base-born oaf, he simply wanted her.  Where was his Dúnedain pride?

"Then give me time to consider this," she demanded, "before we speak of it again."

Dírmaen bowed deeply and fled, before he could disgrace himself further.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

During the summer, Saelon had recaptured the serenity of her bond with the sea as she walked the strand seeking useful weeds and the tastier shelled creatures, or sat on the rocks with a limpet-baited line, catching cuddies.  Now, for the first time since spring, she sought it with a troubled mind.

Dírmaen loved her.

So much that had seemed strange about the Ranger made sense now: his stilted formality, his harping on propriety and honor . . . his long absences from Habad of late, and deeper silences.

Was the man mad?  She would be three-score next year; if he had any idea of heirs, he needed to look to a much younger woman.  Why should such a fine, noble man fancy a short, plain shrew who dug her own garden and defied their Chieftain?  Did he think to beguile her into marriage, so that he might gain a husband's authority over her?

No, this was no mere ruse.  The longing and despair in his eyes had been raw as a wound.  How long had he been carrying this, hidden, in his heart?

And her own heart?  It was pleasantly fluttered by the compliment of so striking a regard, to be sure, but no more.  Dírmaen had her respect and gratitude, but not her affection.  He was at odds with their policies, and with Veylin.  Though she was very sorry for his pain, that was no reason to suffer more of the behavior he had exhibited yesterday.  No sensible woman would attach herself to a man who would give her no peace.

Why, then, was she still uneasy in her mind?  Was it the prospect of Gwinnor's imminent return, and the need to be always on her guard, against his wit if not his wiles?  If the Elf found Dírmaen's infatuation amusing, he might be intolerable.  Or was it the muted undertone in the murmur of the sea, not unlike that which heralded the storms of winter?

Leaving her rock on the strand, Saelon toiled up the dunes and started across the machair.  Under the bright blue sky, the barley was golden-ripe; Maelchon and Airil stood by the base of the track.  "Another day yet," Maelchon judged, chewing ruminatively on a few grains of the corn.  "It is a week early, in any case, and the weather is so fine it will parch hard."

Airil scowled on the ear he had broken open, the wisps of his grey beard fluttering in the rising breeze.  "Tonight is the start of the harvest moon.  And I do not trust this weather," he grumped.  "It has been too fine, too long . . . and my bones ache, worse than they did before that great storm the first winter we were here."

Maelchon laughed at him.  "That will be the jig you danced last night, gaffer.  You are getting too old for so much ale!"

"Shall I make you some liniment?" Saelon asked the old man, eyeing the stiff way he stood.

"Thankee, that is kind."  With a fretful look that echoed her own unease, Airil said, "You have lived here long, Lady.  Is this weather right?  My old bones tell me we are setting for a howler."

"I have never known a gale to come in Ivanneth, but something seems unsettled, yes."  Saelon cast her gaze back at the perfect blue of the sky, then looked to Maelchon, who waited stolidly on their crochets.  "Perhaps it would be as well to begin reaping tomorrow."

The black-bearded husbandman shrugged in easy tolerance.  "As you like, Lady."

By supper the wind had freshened and settled, blowing steady from just north of east.  In the cove before the caves and hall, the air was calm, but below, the corn soughed like an echo of the sea beneath a high band of delicate cloud, a carcanet of color in the vivid light of the setting sun.  Saelon pushed a straggle of damp hair from her face and sighed.  It was close within, where they had been cooking enough to feed everyone on the morrow.

She had not seen Dírmaen since he left her.  That he was reluctant to face her again, she could understand; but he must eat.  He had stinted himself too much already.  If he did not come by full dark, she would send Hanadan out to seek him . . . even if the lad might eat half of what he carried.

Hooves, below in the twilight.  Two, no, three horses, cantering easily towards the cliff from the river; the coat of one glimmered in the deepening gloom.  "Halpan!" Saelon called out, "Gwinnor and Gaernath have returned!"

The third horse bore Dírmaen, and Saelon withdrew to see to supper for the hunters while the men swapped greetings and news.  Yet she hardly had time to set a bit of the beef roasted against tomorrow's need on the board before Halpan and Gwinnor strode into the hall.  "Ah, I ought to have trusted," the Elf declared as if relieved, smiling on the baskets of bannocks, "that you would heed the omens, Lady.  It would have been better, though, to have started today."

"Harvest, you mean?"  Did he think she could divine the thoughts of others, as it was said his people could?  "We will begin as soon as it is light enough.  Will the weather be so very bad?"

Gwinnor's sudden sobriety was more worrisome than any weather-sign.  "I fear so."

"I have never seen a gale this early," Saelon protested.

Gwinnor accepted the cup of ale Halpan had poured him.  "It is rare for these storms to match a winter's blow," he told her, and drank thirstily.  How far had they ridden today?  "Yet once a _ennin_ or so, they are worse."  His blue-grey eyes were bright but grave.  "This one feels as if it will be a true tempest."

"As I have told them!" Airil burst out from his place by his grandsons' door.  "My bones pain me.  Even the Lady's liniment gives no ease," he complained, testy as an offended Dwarf.

Looking between her and Halpan, Gwinnor asked, "You cannot begin now?  It is a beautiful moonlit night."

"Not if we are to keep all our fingers," Halpan allowed, shamefaced.

Saelon shook her head.  "We will work better for a night's sleep.  We are not tireless, as you Immortals."

In the grey light of dawn, the wind was as relentless as it had been on that Gwaeron day when she first met Gwinnor, and ever it strengthened.  Four sickles they had, and the men all took turns, even Halpan, relieving each other as their pace slackened.  Coming close behind, lest the wind take the stalks and send them tumbling across the machair, the women bound it into sheaves.

Already stooks would not stand.  "Where are we to put it all?" Finean despaired, as Hanadan chased after the sheaves that had blown from the peak.  "There is not room in the byre-cave for so much!"

"When it is full," Saelon said, taking a draught from the water-pail, "stack it in the hall.  It need only be for a day or two, until the weather clears.  Let Airil see to it, so he is of some use."

And back she went to binding sheaves.  Stoop and gather, tie and drop . . . .  A touch on her arm broke into the ruthless rhythm.  "Come, Lady," Gwinnor said—near-shouted, to be heard above the hissing roar.  "Take a moment for a draught and a bite.  There is a marvel I would show you."

Rian stepped into her place, her soft hands marked with blood where the sharp stems had cut her, working without complaint.

Cloud was thickening overhead now, but Saelon guessed it was near noon as she followed the Elf towards the shore, champing on a bannock.  Casting a glance over the field, her heart lightened: so much stubble; so much grain safe in store.  She trudged up the dunes, glad the wind was at her back—though the sand would cut at her face when she returned—and wondered what Gwinnor wished to show her.  He had stopped at the crest, the wind whipping his dark braids and molding his shirt to his slim body.

For a moment Saelon stared across the wide strand, seeing nothing strange . . . and then she gasped.  It was the full of the moon.  The tide should be high, at the springs, lapping at the feet of the dunes.  Instead, the cross-looking waves broke half a furlong out, where she would expect them at the ebb.  "What has happened to the tide?" she cried.

"Nothing!"  There was, however, a fey light in his eyes.  "Come again at the ebb to see the true spectacle!  The wind blows so mightily it has thrust the water away from the land.  I have only seen this a handful of times.  Lady, get all you can to shelter, for when the storm breaks, it will be terrible!"

Thank the Powers—thank Veylin—for the deep-delved hall, which no storm shook, high above any possible flood.  They and the corn would be safe there.  "What of our beasts?"

"Where are they now?"

"On the machair south of the tower hill."  The low cliff sheltered them somewhat from this wind.

Gwinnor shook his head.  "They cannot stay there!  When the storm passes over, the wind will shift, and the water will be pushed as high as it is now low."

"Where else can they shelter?  Not along the river, if it may rise."

He was silent for scarce more than two breaths.  "The oakwood.  May I have Dírmaen and Gaernath, as well as your herdsman?  It will take that many to get the beasts so far, against the wind."

"Take them, and my thanks!"

The Elf ran lightly across the broken turf and loose sand.

Saelon turned briefly back to face the strand, and tried to picture how low the tide must fall, if this was the spring flood.  A huge expanse would be laid bare.  What wonders lay hidden beneath those choppy, contrary waves, the secrets of the sea?  She must find the time to come and see—

Secrets of the sea.  Veylin had once asked about the pattern of the tides, as innocently as he knew how.  Not a month past he had come perilously near wrath when she spoke of the dykes on the shore and Gwinnor in the same breath, then relented and obliquely confessed that fear of the Elf kept him to trifles.  Why would a Dwarf dwell so near the sea they all loathed?  Why would he return to the place where a monster had crippled him and slain his companions?

His heart was given to gems, he had told her, as hers to the sea.

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Notes

**Sheep's eyes** : longing amorous glances.

**"The bull is in better temper"** : bulls have a savage reputation, but those kept with their own herd of cows are usually mellow, contented fellows.

**Progress** : a journey through a particular region, particularly a lord's tour of his dominion.

**Slough** : deep mud or mire; a bog.

**Cuddy** (also saithe, _Pollachius virens_ ): fish related to pollack and cod, easily caught with a handline from rocky shores.

**Harvest moon** : the full moon nearest the autumn equinox, so-called because its bright light allows farmers to work into the night during the busy harvest season.

**Freshen** : for wind, to become stronger.

**_Ennin_** : Sindarin, "year"; actually 144 years of the sun.

**Springs** : spring tides occur at the full and new moon, when the tidal range is greater than average; the high tide or flood is higher, and the low tide or ebb is lower.


	20. Lee Shore

_Be secret and exult,_  
_Because of all things known  
_ _That is most difficult._

\--William B. Yeats, "To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Nothing"

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Saelon took Coll from Teig as he came down from the cliff-shelf, telling him she had an urgent errand.  The simple hound-keeper surrendered the horse without question and would surmise nothing if asked.  She rode up the river path to Maelchon's and gave Gràinne Gwinnor's warning, urging her to take the children to the hall before the weather grew worse—then turned the gelding's head north.

It was impossible to make any speed across this rough, pathless country, so she turned him west to the shore, where there were now long stretches of sand.  She clung close to his withers as he pounded across the flat, the drumming of his hooves lost in the howl of the wind, and breathed him as they picked their way across the shingle and rocky headlands that broke the strand, cautiously leaping the long fingers of dark dykes, ragged rock slick with weed and sea-scum.  And then they galloped again, eating up the leagues to Gunduzahar.

Inland, taking a deer track through the heather, to the high flat-topped hill.  Saelon reined Coll to a halt where she and Dírmaen had been stopped by Fram only the day before, but there was no challenge.  Who would be out in such weather?  Up the narrow way to the rill-shelf they scrabbled.  Would the Dwarves open to a knock on the hidden door?

"Halt!" a harsh dwarven voice cried, thunder that overrode the wind, and Saelon saw the gleam of a drawn axe as a red-hooded figure leapt onto the path before them.

The gelding snorted and half-reared.  "Oski!" Saelon exclaimed in relief, bringing the blown beast back down.  "I must speak with Veylin!"

"Lady!"  The blond Dwarf stared at her in stark astonishment, and hastily sheathed his axe.  "What—"  He cast his gaze about, clearly seeking her escort.  "I—" he stumbled for what to say before finding, "What is your message?"

Could she speak of this to Veylin's prentice?  No—she had promised to guard her tongue.  If she must err, let it be on the side of discretion.  "I have not ridden here in this—" she flung a hand into the eye of the wind "—for pleasantries.  Tell him that I am here, with news that will not keep!  I cannot tarry!"

Oski frowned, the wind worrying his beard, tucked into his belt for greater security.  "Come to the doorstep," he said at last, "and wait there."  Then he turned and ran up the track before her.

Dismounting, Saelon led Coll the rest of the way, murmuring praise and patting his sweat-dark shoulder.  She let him lip at the little rill as she waited—there was not enough water there to do him any harm—and gazed up at the ugly clouds.  If this were a gale, she would guess that the rain would hold off for some hours yet . . . .

"What is your news?  Has some calamity befallen you?"

Saelon started when Veylin spoke at her elbow.  "Not yet, and—" seeing his frown deepen "—with the blessing, we will be spared the worst of the coming storm."  She looked to Oski, standing a few paces beyond him.  "I must speak with you in private, Veylin."

His shaggy russet brows, knit so low, leapt nearly into his hair.  "Must?"

"You would wish it, I think."

Veylin hesitated, then turned to Oski.  "Leave us," he commanded and, for good measure, walked out to the edge of the shelf, where gusts blew the little fall up in sudden curtains of spray.  He leaned more heavily on his stick than Saelon had seen of late; perhaps his old wounds felt the weather.  Certainly he looked at the sky as dubiously as a man with so sound a roof could.  "What is this news that you must bring yourself, for my ear alone?"  His voice was pitched so low she could barely hear it through the blast.

"You once asked me," Saelon said, "about the pattern of the tides."

His eyes, usually so warm, were fixed on her now, shuttered as if to face the coming storm.  "I did."

"The coming storm is so great that it has broken the pattern.  When the tide was high, the wind let the water come no higher than the ebb.  As it ebbs, it is falling further still.  A great expanse of the shore," she explained carefully, " will be laid bare, exposing what is ordinarily hid."

"Indeed?"

That disinterested tone did not deceive her, not when his eyes roused to a flame near as bright as the Noldo's.  She had come on no fool's errand.  "It is about a third of the way to the ebb now.  Gwinnor," she added, "is helping us secure our beasts and gear."

Veylin had turned to stare towards the sea, face set as he gauged wind and weather.  "Very kind of him, I am sure."

"I thought you would like to know."

"Yes, I thank you for the news," he replied, courteously distant, mind elsewhere.  Somewhere on the shore, no doubt.

Yet Dwarves feared and mistrusted the sea, even when it was placid.  Would he dare it now?  "Then I will take my leave.  I must be getting back."

"Of course."  Then, for a moment, his thought came back to her.  "Take care, Saelon!"

"And you.  When the wind and tide turn," she warned him earnestly, drawing Coll to a rock she could mount from, "the sea will come in with terrible fury.  Do not linger overlong!"

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The boys were not at supper; nor was her brother.  Auð sat by Vitnir and listened to the subdued talk at table: Haki's hopes that Rekk was on the other side of the mountains and under a good vault of stone; Grani and Nordri wondering if the thatch roof the Men had put on the house they built would stand the blast, or whether slates would have been better.  Oski was there, and she saw Bersi stop to speak with him—but the Longbeard shook his head and did not answer the coppersmith's quiet questions.

Where were they?  Surely not without, not when you could hear and feel the fury of the storm, dim and distant, reverberating through so great a thickness of hard rock.  Had Veylin some project here within that he would work on when none were nearby, relying only her sons for assistance?  If he trusted them with the secret, why not her?  Unless the fond fools were crafting a covert gift for her, such as a hidden way to the storerooms, or a spelled strong room for her treasures.

The difficulty with having clever menfolk was that they had so many irons in the fire.  At some point, one had to trust them, despite their failings.  Yet it was hard to go back to her empty chambers and occupy her mind with commonplaces.  At such times, Auð was most grieved by Thekk's death, and rued her decision to come to this lonely place, far from her friends and kinswomen.

As she sat in her parlour and worked at the broidery on a new tunic for Veylin to wear at the autumn councils, the hour-candle slowly dwindled.  More than a quarter of the night had passed and her doubts were growing on her again when she finally heard the bolt lift and the outer door open.  Two pairs of booted feet entered: slow rather than brisk, though not halt, and trying to be quiet.

Setting her work aside, Auð rose, stepping soft and quick to the door she had left ajar, to be sure it was the boys and see what state they were in.  It was the pair of them, though their hoods and cloaks were strangely dark under the light of the entry-lamp.  They had just passed her, and she gaped at the trail of wet they left behind them on her floor.  Sodden, absolutely sodden!  What had the scamps been up to now?  They were prentices, and ought to have outgrown boyish larks!  "What is this?"

Thyrnir near jumped out of his boots at her growl; both turned sharply to face her, Thyrð stepping closer to his brother rather than away.  Her breath caught: they looked spent, as if returning from hard labor or an arduous journey.  Was Thyrnir _trembling_?  He was certainly an ill color, skin so pale his beard was lurid against it.  Their hair and beards were wild, draggled wisps everywhere, and there was a smell about them she did not recognize.  "What have you done with yourselves?" she demanded, going to them.

Her eldest gave an undeniable shudder, which made her blood run cold.  "Has there been a battle?  What has happened?"

"Nothing, Mother," Thyrð said firmly, taking his brother's arm under his own.  "We have been outside."

"Outside?  In this?"  If anything the storm had intensified; the very air seemed thick with impotent rage, oppressive as siege.  "Whatever for?"

"Let us get into something dry, Mother," Thyrð did not answer, "before we make a worse mess of the floor."

Auð fixed her gaze on Thyrnir.  "Why do you not answer me?"  He had always been the more forthcoming of the two.  "Are you wounded?"  Reaching out, she plucked a strip of some strange dark stuff from his beard, leathery like hide but thin and an ugly green-brown, with a foul, slimy feel.  She did not see any blood, but they were so soaked—

"No, Mother," Thyrnir assured her, drawing back and making an effort to master himself.  "I am not wounded.  Merely over-chilled.  When I am dry, I will be well."

His hand was cold, but no so cold as that.  They were making excuses.  "Did you have leave from your masters for this mad adventure?"  Had they no better way to try their courage than to brave such a storm?  Thyrnir, at least, should be beyond such childishness: he had faced the fiendish water-trolls, and by all accounts acquitted himself courageously.

Thyrnir nodded dutifully.  "Yes, I had leave."

Auð looked to her youngest, and he looked back, draggled jaw resolutely set.  "And you?"

Thyrð remained obstinately silent.

"Where," Auð demanded, with sudden horrible suspicion, "is your uncle?"

That, he would tell her.  She left them to make themselves less of a disgrace to look upon, and set off for her brother's workshop.  Not the boys' foolishness, but his.  She would stake half her marriage portion that this had something to do with that Lady from White Cliffs.  She and Veylin had been sitting long after dinner, discussing how they might extend the kitchens without incurring Bersa's wrath, when Oski barged in, saying the woman of Men was without, bearing urgent news for her brother.

And Auð had not seen him since.

Two visits in two days, and this one without the excuse of trade.  Something peculiar was afoot, and she was determined to find out what it was, if only to lay her own dreadful anxieties to rest.

Turning the last corner, Auð came to an abrupt stop.  Half the corridor was awash, as if a water-seam had been cut, puddles standing on the paving stones . . . yet the roof and walls were dry.  Striding onward to Veylin's workshop, she saw little rivulets running from under the door.  Auð hammered on the cherrywood panel, imperious with uncertainty, using her knock so he would know who demanded entry.  It was so queer!  Had all her menfolk become deranged?  Again she pounded, and again, until Veylin could no longer believe she would give over and go away . . . .

The door opened.  He, too, was sodden to the skin, wild-looking—but where the boys had been pale and drained, her brother was flushed, eyes fire-bright.  Seizing her arm, he dragged her within, then slammed the door shut and threw all the bolts.

"Are you mad?" Auð demanded, furious at being handled so.  She pulled away from him—and nearly tripped over a sack of stone.  Glancing down, she saw the floor was strewn with lumpish, dripping sacking.  One sack lay open on the workbench, where the lamplight struck a hand's-breadth of variegated color amid dark, dark stone.

Veylin laughed with such joy that she let him seize her hands again.  "How many more levels shall we delve, Auð?  As soon as the autumn councils are finished, I will bring Rekk back to plumb the baths you have been longing for, and you may furnish the women's as sumptuously as you wish!"

"Is this all—?" she gaped, as he attempted to caper in a ring with her, hindered by his lameness and the clutter about their feet.

She had not seen him so giddy since he was given his first steel axe.  "Yes!  Did I not tell you your doubts were groundless?"

Auð glanced back at the stone on the workbench, then the floor—even if the proportion of gemstone to rock was less than what she saw . . . .  Let Thyrnir be shaken: he might find a wife despite his preference for wood, if he could give even a tithe of this wealth in gift.  "But—"  She choked back forbidden questions.  "What is this?" she demanded instead, pulling a strip of the leathery greenish stuff from his hair.

Veylin's grin was fey.  "Wrack."

Had she misheard him?  "You faced Orcs for this?"  Troll hide was greenish, she had heard.

"No, not Rakhâs.  Something far more terrible."  He sobered somewhat.  "Has Thyrnir recovered himself?  I would not have taken him," he earnestly assured her, "save that I did not know how Thyrð would bear it, and there was precious little time to work—"

Taking a deep breath for patience, Auð set her hands on his shoulders.  "You are speaking in riddles, brother, or babbling: either way, I do not understand you.  I hope you might find a way to speak more plainly, for I do not know how much longer I can endure such strangeness."

He folded his arms to lay his hands over hers: they were warm but wrinkled from the wet, cut by careless working.  "Your pardon, sister," he murmured, bowing his storm-tossed head.  "All this opal has gone to my head, like strong spirit."

"As there is so much of it, you have hope of pardon."  She picked another bit of wrack from his tunic.  "Have you eaten?"

"Not since dinner."

Nor the boys either, most like.  "Get out of these wet things, and come to my parlour.  I will send the boys for some supper, and we can talk."  Auð looked around at the floor.  "You must tidy this as well, Veylin.  It is draining into the passage, and will cause talk."

"Let it," he rumbled, the fire flaring up in his eyes.  "Let them wonder—they will never guess."

She found the boys together in Thyrnir's chamber, looking more dwarven; ignoring the shame in her eldest's eyes, she authorized them to raid Bersa's larder for whatever they and their uncle might desire.  After what she had seen in Veylin's workshop, the silver it would take to pacify the tight-fisted glutton was a trifle.

Veylin arrived just before they returned, dry-clad and combed, but clutching a chunk of raw fire opal half as big as his fist, his face as triumphantly possessive and besotted as any new-wed groom.  "I give you joy of your strike, brother."  Auð came over to admire it; such a brilliant play of color.  She had never seen an opal so large.  "May it bring even greater riches to your hands."

Thyrnir brought a basket laden with food and the setting for the table, while Thyrð carried two brimming pitchers of ale.  Auð let the three of them eat, picking up her broidery where she had left off.  As Thyrð chased the last of the brambleberries around the dish with his spoon and Veylin topped up his tankard, she ran an eye over her men.  They looked well-satisfied, and it seemed they had every right to be so.  "Well, are you in a mood for tales, now?  For," she rumbled in mild warning, "I dearly wish to hear some."

"Where shall I start?" Veylin asked biddably.

Auð considered where the warp and weft of her understanding had become disordered.  "The sullen Man who escorted the Lady yesterday, Dírmaen."  Biting off her thread, she began unwinding another length.  "Is he not the Man of the Star who helped you slay the fiends?  Why does he look on you so resentfully?"  If Bersi and Thyrnir had not been companionable with the dark Man, she would have questioned the wisdom of admitting him to their halls.

"Yes, he is the Man of the prodigious spear," Veylin confirmed.  "Though he is honorable, the two of us have never agreed.  Like the others of his badge, he would rather Saelon and her folk dwelt east of the Lune.  He thinks I play upon Saelon's gratitude for undue advantage, involving her in intrigues against Lindon."  Whiskers quirking in self-satisfied disdain, he concluded, "He is jealous that she prefers my counsel to his."

"Why should he not be?" Auð asked, baffled.  "It is very odd that she should favor those of another race over her own kind."  No wonder the other men had been so hospitable to the Man.

"You would not find it strange," Veylin declared warmly, "if you knew how ill Men treat their women.  They do not want judgment, only obedience.  Dírmaen thinks I am to blame for her willfulness."

Auð snorted.  The Lady was headstrong enough; she had put Bersa firmly in his place, once she understood the proper value of things.  "All men want complaisance, but they must earn it.  It is not so among Men?"

"No.  It is demanded as a right."

Absurd.  "Before strangers, perhaps—"

"They beat them," Thyrnir said baldly, "as some beat their ponies.  I have seen it."

She saw her own disbelief mirrored on Thyrð's face, but Veylin's was grim with distaste.  "Why do they suffer it?"  It was unimaginable.  A man might strike a woman—but he had best be prepared for the return blow.

"They are not Khazâd," Veylin muttered darkly, and took a pull from his tankard.  "You have seen that their women are smaller than the men.  Smaller, weaker . . . nor are they taught the use of arms.  Any contest is uneven."

"Their kin do not protect them?"

"Their kinsmen are no better . . . nor worse," her brother allowed.  "Good Men do not compel their women; but good women of Men do as they are told without debate.  Why do you think Saelon dwelt alone so long?  She was an outcast, considered rebellious because she will not surrender her own good judgment.  Though," he rumbled contemptuously, "her folk did not scruple to flee to her, when they were in dire need of courage and sense.  The Ranger grudges that, and that I have stood by her in her resistance."

Outrageous; yet it put a different complexion on the Lady's singular boldness, and her brother's regard.  If it were true, no wonder Saelon was committed to alliance with Veylin: a Man would be reluctant to abuse one a Chieftain of the Firebeards called friend.  How queer, though, ordinary women of Men must be, if the Lady had something like a dwarvish temper of mind!  "And the intrigues?  Is that what brought her here twice in as many days?"

Veylin's expression began to close, but he looked at the chunk of red-gold gem still in his off hand and seemed reassured.  "Not against Lindon.  You heard her answer to Nordri, when he asked for limestone.  Yet Gwinnor, Lindon's herald . . . ."

She waited for him to find a better way to tell it to her than he had done in the past.  When the Lady had first sent word of this herald, soon after they arrived, Veylin had sallied forth as if Orcs had been seen near the delf, though he saw fit to take Thyrð alone with him.  They returned as if it had been naught but a visit of courtesy, bearing word of the Lady's secure tenure, but ever since, double watches had been set and Veylin spent more time in his workshop than abroad.  Yesterday, the Lady had told him that the herald had returned—and Veylin had taken the news like one who had long anticipated such a complication, his repeated assurances that there was no danger here notwithstanding.

"He is not one of Círdan's Sea-Elves, but a Noldo _mírdan_."

"A _mírdan_!"  One of the gemsmith allies of the Longbeards in the last Age?  No wonder Veylin did not trust Oski in this!  Auð stared at the opal in Veylin's grasp.  What had he said, that Gwinnor was a keen hunter?  "Are you mad, to be taking gems such as this when such a one is about?"

"Gwinnor will never see where this came from," Veylin growled with fierce satisfaction.

"What, is he dead?"  She looked from him to her sons, and back again.  "Have you slain him?"

"Slain him?"  Veylin looked startled.  "When he is one of my best customers?  Mahal forefend!"

"Then how do you know the lode remains secret?  Did the Lady bring some news of him?"

"Some," he confessed, suddenly reticent.

Auð gaped.  "Veylin!  Do not tell me the Lady knows where it lies!"  How could she have told him the way was clear, if she did not?

"Not exactly!  Only somewhat of its setting.  I never told her," he swore, seeing her face.  "We have never spoken of it!"

"Then how could she know anything of it?"  The woman of Men knew where his treasure lay, and she did not.

"Her folk say the sea speaks to her," Thyrnir murmured.  "Is that how you knew the tide would ebb so far?"

The sea.  Wrack: yes, the Lady had spoken of it on her visit in the spring, the weed the sea heaped on the shore.  Something more terrible than Orcs, that even her stout-hearted Thyrnir would tremble before.  Auð saw, in her mind's eye, the fine sea-beryl, caught in arching, pearl-flecked silver.  Four times the height of a Dwarf, in storms.

"I once asked her about the tides," Veylin admitted.  "That is all.  She came to tell me of the tides.  What else she has surmised, I do not know!"

Enough, it seemed.  Enough to deliver Veylin's heart's desire into his hands, in despite of his rival.  Truly, a fitting return for his support, which had kept her by the sea she was said to love.  The Lady gave full measure in trade, even if she did not understand the worth of the wares.

Auð met the rich russet of her brother's distressed gaze, and chuffed softly.  "You have despaired, I think, of ever putting a certain sea-beryl into the Lady's hands.  It seems to me that it would be some return for so much fire."  She nodded significantly at the opal in his clutch.  "Presuming you would keep friendly with a familiar of the Lord of Waters."

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Notes

**Lee shore** : a lee is a shelter; the lee side of a ship is the side protected from the wind; and a lee shore is the one on a ship's lee side, i.e., the one the wind blows towards.

**Hour-candle** : before the development of fully mechanical clocks, the commonest way of telling time indoors was the use of candles that burned at a calibrated rate.  Although not as accurate as sand-based "hour-glasses" (which only appeared in the later medieval period), they didn't require such careful attention; it was easier to tell when one "ran out," at least at night.  I certainly believe Dwarves had the skill and/or magic to make more sophisticated time-keepers, such as a clepsydra or water-clock, but it seems to me that such things would be "showpieces" for more public areas of a mansion, where all could consult—and be impressed by—them.

It is hard for us, in our intensely time-conscious culture, to appreciate how careless our predecessors were about time, unless obsessed with orderly ritual observances like the liturgical hours.  For common Men (and Elves and Hobbits), a glance at the sky, day or night, would normally tell them as much as they needed to know.  Since Dwarves spent much of their lives underground, where the sun, moon, and stars could not be seen, I expect they would have given more thought to time-keeping, but being a pragmatic people, only so much as was useful.  I don't see them punching time-cards or charging by the hour.

**Water-seam** : an aquifer; a porous layer of rock saturated with water.

**Rakhâs** : Khuzdul, "Orcs."

**Mahal** : the Dwarves' name for Aulë, the Vala who created them—and a particular friend of the Noldor.


	21. Give and Take

_Talk not of wasted affection! affection never was wasted;_  
_If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning_  
_Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment:  
_ _That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain._

\--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Evangeline"

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A belated harvest feast, but a fine one for all that.  And though his complacence gave the Elf's face a suspect cast, Gwinnor had obligingly paid down an earnest for the best of the season's garnets.  "So," Veylin wondered, leaning back with his cup, "will you ride with us, Lady, when we go to Lindon?"

The boards had been set up out in the dooryard, where all was fresh-scrubbed by the storm, since the hall was still stuffed with unthreshed barley.  Save that the rowans and may-bushes were somewhat tattered, there was little trace of the great tempest, and the sky overhead was lapis-blue, dappled with high clouds shaded like silver in light and shadow.

"I?" Saelon exclaimed as if startled, the smile leaving her face.  "I cannot go."

"Why not?"  Veylin frowned at her surprise.  Had she given no thought to whom would take their rent to Mithlond?

"I have too much to do in autumn," she declared dismissively.  "It is my last chance to gather many simples, and there are the rose hips and sloes, aside from hazelnuts.  If you wish to buy mead from me, I must brew it, and I promised Fransag that I would show her the best way to smoke stenlock."  His smile deepened as the list of her industry lengthened, until she demanded, sharply, "The trip would take what, a month, there and back again?"

Halpan reached across and topped up her mead.  "Not so long," he assured her soothingly.  "Ten days to Mithlond, did you say, Gwinnor?"

"Less, if the weather is fair."  The Elf held out his cup to the Man.  "A trifle more, if you please.  How long do you reckon the journey to be, Veylin?" he invited.

Stroking his beard, Veylin admitted, "We take a little longer, going by pony on the mountain tracks."  In part because they stopped to visit among the lesser mansions and dwarf-houses along the way.  "Still, no more than a fortnight."

Saelon shook her head.  "I cannot spare so long.  Halpan must go."

"I am not home a week, and already you wish to send me away again?" Halpan cried, with wounded eyes and a rascal's smile.

"One of us must go."

"Seriously, Saelon," her cousin replied, setting down his ale.  "You ought to go, to confirm the agreement with Círdan.  If he desires to alter it, I would not dare speak for you.  Besides," he added, grinning at Gwinnor, "I would be overawed by so many Elves."

She cast her gaze over her very assorted guests, beginning to look cross.  "Who would escort me?  Not Partalan!"

Veylin snorted into his cup, imagining the rude, uncouth swordsman in Mithlond.  It might be amusing, for all that Saelon would be mortified.

"No," Halpan agreed, very decidedly.  "But surely you have no objections to Gaernath?  He admires Elves mightily, and—" the Dúnadan glanced down to the far end of the board, where Murdag sat on Leod's knee, a wreath of late flowers crowning her black hair "—it would be a kindness if he were abroad for a time."

Indeed, the lad had foregone the feast, which celebrated the wedding of the two cottars as well as the harvest.  The merriment down there was growing ribald, and to his dismay Veylin saw that Thyrð had left the other Dwarves and drawn closer to those taunting the new couple.  The lad was too curious for any good to come of it.  Pray that no untoward tales reached his mother!

"Yes," Saelon decided, with a sigh.  "Gaernath should certainly go.  Yet you do not think—" giving the Ranger a peculiar look "—he would be a sufficient guard, surely."

There was another dour face, who might as well have kept Gaernath company for all the pleasure he took from the evening's conviviality.

"I suppose not," Halpan allowed, then turned to Dírmaen.  "That leaves you.  Would you be willing to accompany Saelon to the Havens?"

"I?"  The Ranger was strangely hesitant, considering his attentiveness to Saelon's honor.  "I was not in favor of the agreement with Lindon."

"Do you still oppose it?""

Dírmaen's eyes, steely as his sword, met Veylin's.  "The agreement has been made.  I accept that it must be honored, or I would not have helped gather the payment."

Good; he held by his word, though it galled him.

"You have no objection, Saelon?"  Halpan spoke as if it were settled, raising his cup.

"I cannot go," she maintained.  "How can I go to the Havens to treat with Círdan, when I have not yet presented myself to my own Chieftain?  That cannot be right!"

Veylin scowled discreetly within his beard.  She had never scrupled over her Chieftain before.  "Certainly," he told her, choosing his words with care before the others, "it would have been politic to go to Argonui before this, but you can truly plead the press of your many duties.  If he is a fair-minded Man, he will forgive the slight—especially," he rumbled, unable to pass over such neglect, "given how little he has done on your behalf."

The offended press of Dírmaen's lips was plain on so naked a face.

"I should spend all my time riding hither and yon?" Saelon objected.

"That is one of the duties of lordship.  Do you think I would not rather sit at my workbench, than spend so many days on the road?"  Especially now: he could hardly bear to leave his new store of opal, though it was triply secured in the vault he alone had delved.

"Have you no curiosity to see the lands where your grandmother was born?" Gwinnor asked.

The glance Saelon gave him was reproachful, and near as dark as Dírmaen's.  "Very well.  I see you are all of the same opinion, for a wonder.  You must excuse me, however: I must see to what food is left."  Rising, she glanced down towards the raucous laughter among the simpler folk.  "No one else will give thought to such things tonight."

"You should not either!" Halpan called after her, as she headed towards the hall.

"Do not waste your breath," Dírmaen muttered, and drank deep.

Gwinnor caught Veylin's eye and subtly lifted a slim, questioning brow; he was shrugging his ignorance when Rian dashed up and seized Halpan's arm.  "Come!" she commanded joyously.  "We are about to start dancing, and I require a partner!"

There between the great bonfires, fed by the prodigious quantities of wood the storm had flung up onto the shore, no one seemed to take notice of Saelon's absence, and after a time, Veylin drifted back towards the darkness until he, too, was forgotten by the revelers, free to seek her without comment.  He found her on the other side of the spur just beyond the hall, scouring a kettle by the light of a single dim lamp.  "Surely you need not do such work," he murmured, settling onto the bench and laying his blackthorn beside him.

"I want to do it," she said curtly, scrubbing harder.

Willfully perverse; this was more than annoyance.  "I sometimes think," Veylin observed, leaning back against the limestone, still warm from the afternoon sun, "that you would be happier digging your own peats and grinding your own grain again."

"I would."

He gave a low chuff.  "You are very singular, Saelon.  Why do you not wish to go to the Havens?"

She paused in her work, but it was hard to read her strongly shadowed face.  "Foolishness, no doubt.  Tell me—what is Círdan like?"

Ah.  "What can I say but good," he said lightly, "of an Elf who is a craftsman and has a beard?"

Saelon stared at him, surprised and then dubious.  "A beard?"

"Truly.  Though he is an Elf, and overfond of the sea."  She was not diverted, so he matched her sobriety.  "If any will respect your attachment, surely he will.  Too, he knows well what it is to be lord over a broken people.  You might get good counsel from him.  I know no reason why you should fear him," he assured her.  "He is wise and just, and has been a friend to your kin."

Going back to her pot, she muttered, "I am not allowed to be daunted by one who has seen more than three Ages of the world?"

There was a roar of Dwarvish voices from the throng in support of Vitnir, who was dueling with Partalan in fiery tunes, to the delight of the dancers; the mocking strains of Thyrnir's bowed strings soared high above.  Smiling, Veylin scoffed mildly, "You are not daunted by Gwinnor."

"You think not?"

"No more than I."

She gave a soft snort and was silent a while.  "I have not your resources, Veylin."

"Nor I yours."  She undervalued herself.  "Come, Saelon," he chided, "leave off playing the scullion.  It will not make you feel more worthy.  I have something here," he reached for the extra pouch he carried at his belt, "that may arm your pride, but I will not give it into your hands when they are in such a state."

She drew back as if he had reached for his axe.  "I have cleared my debt to you, by a wonder.  Please, do not open the account again."

Perhaps he ought to have waited, since her mood had soured.  Yet how long would it be before another opportunity presented?  "Debt?  I know of no debt between us."

"Veylin . . . ."

"Do not mistake," he rumbled, matching her warning, "my self-interest for kindness.  It serves my purposes well to have you and your folk near at hand."  He drew forth the casket bound with sea-steel.  "Still, I never imagined that you could render me so great a service as you have.  I doubt any of your royal forebears ever gave so kingly a gift, not since Camlost gave Lúthien's marriage portion."  Holding the box out on the palm of his hand, so she could see how small and plain it was, he said, "I hope you will accept this as a token of my esteem."

She was shaking her head in denial, but not with such vigor as he had feared.  "It was nothing—simply a return for the advice you have so often given me."

"It is the work of my own hands, Saelon."

That seemed to tip the balance.  After laving her hands in the washtub, she wiped them scrupulously on her threadbare shawl and picked up the lamp, bringing it with her.  "You know how little use I have for finery."

"Hhm, yes."  How long had she worn Rekk's gold in her hair, before trading it to keep Hanadan by her side?  If she should ever again be in dire need, this should ransom all she held dear.

Veylin took the lamp in return for the casket, and saw to the wick as she studied it, so there would be better light when she opened it.  "Turn the key," he urged as she hesitated, weighing it.  "The box is not the gift."

"No?"  A glint of humor returned.  "It is very fine."

"Who but you would think so?"  It was well-made, of course, but the only ornamentation was the strapping, and that was in the Dwarvish style, which other folk found unlovely.  There had not been time to commission another both plain and strong, which would resist the salt air she favored.

Apparently his exasperation and the box's lightness reassured her, for she opened it—then frowned, poking at the chamois wrapping with one suspicious finger.  "Nor do I have much use for anything that will not wear."

"It is not for everyday, or I would not have bothered with the casket."

Finding the silver chain, she drew it into the light . . . and the pendant gem with it.

Veylin shifted the lamp so the light caught the long facets of the blue-green stone as she stared, speechless.  Yes, he was pleased with the piece: the glimmer of pearl on the dark silver of the waves took him back, for a moment, to the deafening thunder of the strand.  The spume, like slaver on an enraged boar's curved tusks, had glowed so in the light of the rising moon, when it broke through the ragged clouds—

He shuddered, and the quaver in the light broke the spell.  Saelon's stunned gaze flew to him.  "Token . . . ?" she protested.

"It was meant to be my ransom," he confessed quietly, "but you required," glancing back at the hall's door, he gave a wryly amused breath of a chuff, "something that would wear.  I am glad of the occasion to put it in your hands, Saelon."

"Then it is too much—far too much!"  She tried to return it to the casket with both care and haste, but was thwarted by the chain.

"Have you ever heard of a Dwarf overpaying?" Veylin demanded, offended.

She was unable to untangle the fine links while meeting his glare.  "No."

"Do you doubt my judgment?"

Surrendering, she drew the sea-jewel back out, so its weight straightened the chain, and stared at it again.  "What am I to do with it?"

Her unworldliness was beyond belief.  "Wear it, Lady of Habad-e-Mindon, when next some high lord would look down his nose at you!"  Even if she were in rags, there would be no doubting who her allies were.

Finally taking the gem in her hand, Saelon brought it closer to the lamp.  "It is beautiful," she murmured, angling it so the light penetrated into its cool depths.  "Like a piece of the sea."

"That is why such stones are called sea-beryls."

In this light, it was much the color of her eyes.  "I have told you, Veylin, that I need no token to remind me of the sea."

"You will make me jealous," he complained, careful to keep his tone that of jest.  "You long wore the gold Rekk gave you.  Did you take more satisfaction from his restitution than you do from my friendship?"

"Of course not," she scoffed, then sighed.  "But a guilt-price is less easily misunderstood."

"That is not how I remember it," a Man's voice observed, soft and harsh.

Saelon straightened with a start, and Veylin swung around to find Dírmaen standing beside the slight shoulder of stone, as if he had just stepped from its cover.  "How long have you been spying?" he growled.  Did the Man mean to rebuke him for overfamiliarity again?  He thought that had been settled in the spring, when Dírmaen had counseled Saelon to accept his aid in her negotiations with Gwinnor.

"Spying?" the Ranger echoed, his gaze falling back to Veylin from Saelon, a dark gleam in his gaunt, bronzed face.  "Nay.  I came to speak with the Lady, and found I must wait my turn.  Yet I can see how matters might be misunderstood, here in the shadows."

"Dírmaen!" Saelon exclaimed, scandalized.

If the lamp had not cumbered his hand, Veylin would have reached for his axe.  "We have had words on this before," he rumbled, narrowing his eyes at the insinuation.

"Which you did not heed."

"How much more convincing do you require, Ranger?"

"Stop this, both of you!" Saelon cried, stepping between them.  Turning on Dírmaen, she demanded furiously, "Why do you want me, if you believe such things?  Or are you so jealous that you will not brook any rival for my attention, not even a friend?"

Veylin shut his mouth, which threatened to gape.  The Ranger was courting Saelon?

"A friend?"  Dírmaen flung his hand towards the sea-jewel in her grasp.  "What friend gives such gifts?  He would buy your favor!"

"You think my favor can be bought?" Saelon countered, livid with offense.

"What have you in common, then?  Well?" he pressed, when she found no immediate reply.  "Did you care for him before he gave you this lordly hall?"

"She did," Veylin attested, before Saelon could find her voice.  Just her anger might be, but her tongue was intemperate at such times, sometimes to her regret.  "Else I would be dead.  Her generosity began this, not mine.  Since then, it has been all I can do to match her."  If it were not some service actually in arrears, such as fiend-killing, then she would consider herself indebted for a friend's counsel, and always she was as hospitable as she could afford.  Pride, naught but pride . . . .  He admired her resource more than he could say.

"What did she do that warranted so rich a return as this?" Dírmaen demanded, gesturing to the gem again.

"Showed me the way to my heart's desire."

Perhaps that was not the best choice of words, given the ambiguity surrounding them, but he would be no plainer before such animosity.  As the Ranger looked down on him with unrelenting suspicion, Saelon cried, "Is this why you censure me as you do?  Because I give timely news to a friend?  Or is it because he is not a Man?"

And maybe that was the deepest offense.  "No, he is not."

Since it was impossible that he should ever be in Dírmaen's position, Veylin could not judge.  Among Dwarves, deep friendships between men and women were uncommon, but unquestioned, unless a spouse took exception.  Yet if Dírmaen desired Saelon for his wife—

Veylin stared at the two of them as he might have stared at a fault cracking the vault over his head, knowing it was futile to run.  The stone would fall on your head, or it would not.

"You did not chastise me for being with Gwinnor," Saelon challenged, falcon-fierce head as high as it would go, "or long on the shore alone with Elrohir."

"That is different."

"Why?  Because they are too high to trifle with such a short drab as myself, while a Dwarf might stoop to anything?"

How had he thought she needed a champion?  Dírmaen looked as if she had planted a spear in his guts, and twisted it.  "No!  How could you think so?  Do you not understand how much I admire you?"

"No, I do not!  When have you ever spoken to me of admiration, until the day before the storm?"

"How could I speak, when you had been left in my keeping?" the Ranger wanted to know; but his haughty severity had cracked.  "I have been more compliant: I have ceased asking you not to rove alone, though I fear for your safety; I went with you to Veylin's halls, as you wished, instead of after the wolves.  I spent weary days seeking those wolves," he declared, as if in desperation, "so that you might stay here, as you desire—the only thing, it seems, you could need me for!"

Though she was a full head shorter, Saelon seemed to look down Dírmaen.  "Where do you get such notions?  I most certainly have need of you: though Gaernath is a better hunter than he was, and Halpan and Partalan have returned, none of them attend to their duties unbidden.  Indeed," she said, fair-minded even in offense, "you do more than all three together.  Since you have come, I do not have to nag at them so much, and you are a better example to Gaernath and Hanadan.  Do you think I do not see all you do, every day?"

"Are those the only reasons you could want me?"

"Unless you can quell your resentment, yes!  You will not warm my heart with such churlishness, and I will not consider your suit until I see some amendment."  Having overthrown him and dictated her terms, Saelon relented somewhat.  "I swear to you," she assured him, voice low and solemn, though still clipped with anger, "Veylin is no more to me than a friend and allied lord.  You have no cause to be jealous of him, as a Ranger or as a man."

None of these Dúnedain gave over after a fall.  "So you tell yourself," Dírmaen muttered, though he would not meet her eyes, "but any who see you together know he is dearer to you than that."

"He has stood in the place of the brother I have lost," Saelon declared, with bitter coldness.  "Would you be jealous of my brother, if he were not dead?"  Casting the chain of the sea-jewel about her neck, she stalked off towards the merriment.

They both watched her go.  After a time, Veylin said quietly, "You have my word as well, if you require it."

He was not offended by Dírmaen's forbidding glower: there should be no witnesses when a man was set down so, in matters of the heart.  "You think that would reassure me, if I doubted her?"

"No."  Nor should it.  Veylin set down the lamp and took up his stick.  As he stood, he added, as inoffensively as he might, "Good fortune, Dírmaen."

"Do not say you hope for my success."

Veylin looked up at that high, gravely wounded face.  The Ranger was a valiant and honorable Man . . . but was he Saelon's match?  "I have never seen anyone who needed helpmeet more—but Saelon will judge for herself, as ever.  Still, she would not trouble to quarrel with you, if she did not regard you."

Dírmaen snorted his contempt.  "I am supposed to take comfort from that?"

"Take what comfort you may," Veylin advised him, "for you may need all you can find."

"You think her so cold?"

Veylin answered the angry words with a chopped laugh.  "I have never yet known such a temper that did not come from the forge.  But have you not seen that her heart is given to the Sea?"

All he got for his concern was scorn, but he had not expected better.  "How could I not," Dírmaen said scathingly, "having long tried to shift her from this shore?"

Yet he had hopes of her affection, after such contention?  The strangeness of Men was a lode that could not be exhausted.  Giving a bow of the most punctilious courtesy, Veylin followed Saelon back towards light and music.  It promised to be a most interesting journey to Lindon.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**Stenlock** (also saithe, _Pollachius virens_ ): cuddies are the young fish; they are called stenlock when full-grown.

**Scullion** : the lowest ranked domestic servant, who usually did the dirty work in the kitchen.

**Sea-steel** : an alloy that resists the corrosive effects of salt spray.  I presume that at some point over the millennia, an Elvish smith created such a thing.

**Camlost** : "Empty-handed," the name Beren took to himself after returning to Doriath one-handed, without the Silmaril.  Veylin is very deliberately invoking the contradictory themes of poverty, self-denigration, and greatness of heart worthy of the highest honor.


End file.
